


The Mystery of the Transported Spectre

by gibbytod



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gibbytod/pseuds/gibbytod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a series of strange disappearances and murders in Colorado Springs draw their attention, the Winchesters reluctantly team up with British detective duo Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to uncover the killer's motives and stop the violence.  But when the team stumbles upon a large blue box at the most haunted spot in the state, none of them is prepared for just how strange this case is about to get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Colorado Springs, Colorado**

**January 13**

 

It was a dark and stormy night.  Snow whipped against the shutters of the mansion and the harsh wind whistled through the eaves loud enough to wake the dead.  The man smiled mirthlessly to himself as he observed this; if all went as planned, he would not need the wind’s help accomplishing that feat.

Floorboards creaked under his weight as he passed through the halls of the mansion, turning off the gaslights as he went.  In a few minutes, the whole building would be utterly dark.  He had thought before that he feared the dark, but recent events had forced him to realize that he had never truly been afraid of the dark itself, but rather what lived in it.  He swallowed his discomfort as he snuffed the last wall lamp.  The only light remaining was the flimsy lantern that he would be permitted to carry until he reached the cellar.  After that, his guests had said total darkness would be necessary.

The man glanced around the foyer of the mansion.  It appeared bigger on the inside without any light to show otherwise.  The moaning of the old boards and bricks as they moved in the wind did little to allay his sense that the mansion was growing.  Perhaps that was a good thing.  He was expecting more guests that night, and for many nights to come.  He would need places to house them. 

A strong gust of wind sprayed snow across the massive window above the front door.  Until now, the winter had been unusually mild, but tonight it seemed the mountains were waking up with a vengeance.  The man wondered for a moment if the cold would affect his guests, then realized in the next moment how ridiculous that notion was.  After all, he reasoned, one must have a body in order to feel cold.  His own body was shivering with all the heat in the mansion shut off.  He wrapped his sweater more tightly around his thin frame, took one last dubious look at the snow-covered window, and shuffled toward the back of the house.

Perhaps by virtue of having the largest fireplace, the servants’ kitchen was still warm as the man walked through it on his way to the cellar.  He had a fleeting desire to stay and thaw, but his guests valued punctuality.  He hung the lantern on a hook and opened the cellar door’s iron padlock, setting it and its iron key a safe distance from the entrance.  It took all his strength to wrench open the heavy trapdoors, and the old hinges shrieked as he pushed them down.  A blast of cold air greeted him as he shone the lantern on the steps leading down into the basement.  Unlike the feral winter wind outside, the cellar air was fine-tuned to be the perfect level of coldness to suit his guests.  Both airs seemed equally bitter to the man, but no matter how violent the blizzard became, the air in the cellar unsettled him more.  Normal machines did not run cold.

From here on he would have to travel without a light.  He gazed briefly at the small light to bolster his courage then snuffed it out.  From force of habit his eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, but he could not suppress his nervousness, and his feet wavered as he felt his way down the stairs.  He was completely surrounded by the darkness now.  Not even the smallest glimmer of exterior light could find its way into the cellar; his guests had been very specific in their requirements.  He moved with more confidence once he was off the stairs. 

From here on out he knew every movement like clockwork, so many times had he practiced with the machine.   His body moved outside of his conscious control as his mind nervously raced through all the calculations, all the variables, all the things that could go wrong…all the things that could go right.  He paused in his work for a moment as the full implications of what he was about to do washed over him in one anxious wave.  His breath quickened and his hands shook harder than ever.  A moment later the temperature in the room dropped a full ten degrees, shocking him back into work.  He had already conquered his fear of the dark; what did his other fears matter?  His guests were helping him just as he was helping them.  He could trust them, just as they’d said.  They would help him accomplish all he had hoped he would, and then, he would never have to be afraid again. 

In moments he was finished.  He stepped back and stood in the direction of the machine.  The air cooled even further, well below freezing now, and his teeth chattered as he spoke.

“My guests, all is ready.  The machine is primed, and your rooms are prepared as you requested.”  He paused.  “I-is there anything else I may do for you before…?”

The air in the cellar quivered.  The man nodded quickly.  “Yes…yes, I understand.  I shall prepare everything again just like this.  Just tell me when.”

The air stopped quivering.  The man nodded again, then with more practiced movements walked to the side of the room, opened one of the coolers lining the wall, and pulled out a jar.  His hands were as cold as the jar, so he felt nothing as he opened it and poured its contents onto the floor of the machine.  Moving back into his corner, he carefully set it aside for later use. 

Once all was settled, he took a deep breath to steady himself and began chanting.  He didn’t know what the words meant or even from where they came.  In that moment, he didn’t care.  He focused solely on the sound of the chant and the humming that was the machine’s response.  It grew stronger as his voice grew louder.  After a few moments, a blue spark lit up the room.  The man shut his eyes but continued chanting.  More sparks flew from the machine, snapping and popping in the ice-cold air.  The humming soon became an electric whine so loud the man longed to cover his ears.  The sparks grew larger and larger until they were full currents running in tall arches from one side of the machine to the other.  Even when shut, the man’s eyes burned from their light, and by the time the currents formed a single running archway he was bent over, screaming to be heard over the vibrations.  So absorbed was he in his struggle against light and sound that he never saw the shadows passing through the archway one by one every few moments.  A dozen or more passed before the current began shorting out.  A few flashes of light and shots of sound more, and the machine suddenly stopped. 

The cellar was dark and silent once more.  Panting hard and wiping blood from his ears, the man pushed himself off the ground and stood.  Though he knew he wouldn’t see anything even if he did, he dared not open his eyes.  He could sense the new presences in the room; the air vibrated violently around them.  He coughed, searching for his broken voice.  His hands were shaking again.  He opened his sore mouth and croaked out one word:

“Welcome.”


	2. Chapter 2

** **

**Somewhere on a highway in Kansas**

**One week later**

 

“There is no way in Hell that’s gonna happen!”

“You said you wouldn’t overdo it!”

“Yeah, well that was before you started being a baby about rock-paper-scissors.”

“I’m notbeing a baby, it’s the rul-”

“Rules, schmooles.  You lost, I won, now suck it up and take it like a man!”

“Dude, no one can take this for five hours straight.  I really am gonna lose my marbles if I have to listen to another minute of this tuneless, soulless crap.”

“Whoa, OK, that’s just downright nasty.  You sure you got _your_ soul back OK?”

“Whatever.  Just, seriously, turn it down.  Before I gank myself just to get some quiet.”

“I’ll gank you to get some quiet, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean grinned as Sam slouched further into his seat, glaring at the radio.  When they’d left the motel in Missouri, Sam had dared him to a match for rights to control the music.  For what may very well have been the first time ever, Dean overcame his brother by rock-beats-scissors, and had been playing every classic rock mixtape he owned on repeat ever since.  He was thoroughly enjoying his victory. 

Sam heaved a dramatic sigh as “Back In Black” came on for the fourth time.  Dean grinned again as he reached for the volume control.  Sam’s hand darted out and covered it at the last second. 

“No.”

Dean gaped.  “Dude, you know the house rules: driver picks the music, shotgun-”

 “-is getting really sick of guitar-banging mullet rock.”  Sam leaned forward.  “ _Don’t.  Turn.  It.  Up.”_

For a moment, Dean considered the feasibility of kicking his brother’s ass without crashing the Impala.  His concern for his baby won out, and he backed off the radio.  Sam was visibly relieved as he eased the volume down to a bearable level.  Dean shook his head.  “I cannot believe you sometimes,” he muttered.

“Heh.  Mutual.”  Sam leaned back to pull out his bag from the back seat.  Dean sighed. 

“Really, man?  Research on the road?”

“This is a weird job.  I mean, weird even for us.  We’re gonna need all the intel we can get before we get out there.”  He opened up his laptop and began sorting through the files he’d managed to collect before they’d hit the road that morning.

Dean shrugged.  “Fine, whatever gets you through the road trip.”

Sam scoffed, “We’re in Kansas.  It’s not like there’s a whole lot else to look at.”

Dean raised a finger.  “Hey, don’t hate the home state.  Besides,” he smiled as “Dust In The Wind” started playing.  “Some Kansas is worthwhile.  I give you example A.”  He started turning up the music before Sam hit his hand away again.  He looked incredulously at Dean. 

“Dude, focus.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Alright, run it by me again.”

Satisfied, Sam returned to his computer.  “Ok, so, four months ago a girl disappeared while hiking a pretty normal, popular trail, the Field of Lights Trail, right outside Colorado Springs.  One month later, another one.  And _two_ more exactly a month after that.”

“So we’re thinking probably a werewolf.”

Sam shook his head.  “See, there’s the thing.  I lined up the dates right before we left the motel.  All the disappearances occurred nowhere near the full moon.  And-”

“Great, I love ands.”

“ _And_ this month, no disappearances at all.”

Dean frowned.  “Wait, none?”

“None.  They just stopped.”

Dean shook his head.  “Nah, that can’t be right.  I mean, why would this thing be clockwork for three months and then just stop?  There’s gotta be a reason.”

Scrolling down his laptop, Sam paused and raised his eyebrows.  “Well, this might be a reason.”

“What?”         

“There was a massive blizzard a week ago at the right time for the next disappearance.  All the hiking trails were closed off before it hit, so there weren’t even any girls there to vanish.”

“Ok.  So, lemme get this straight: girls disappear from the same trail at the same time every month, which is not during the full moon, so it can’t be a werewolf.”  Dean paused as he mulled it over.  “Could be vamps.”        

Sam made a face. 

“Ok, vamps with OCD,” Dean amended. 

“It can’t be vamps either, because some of the disappearances happened during the day.  Vampires never hunt during the day.”

“Dude, do you want me to give suggestions or not?”

“I’m just saying the facts here.  Not my fault they’re whacked out.”

“Yeah,” Dean acquiesced.  His fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the now-quieted music as he thought.  “You called Bobby?”

“Not yet.  We don’t really have anything to call Bobby with.  Once we get some better facts in Colorado, we can call it in.”

“Fair enough.”  Dean glanced at the computer.  “Got anything else?”

Sam stared uncertainly at the laptop.  “Not really.  Just-”

“Good deal.”  Dean turned the music back up and leaned back into the seat.  “Talk to you again when we’re out of the wilderness.”

The Impala roared down the highway, leaving a trail of dust and Metallica in its wake.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Broadmoor Hotel, Colorado Springs**

**Morning, January 21**

           

John Watson did not like the cold.  More to the point, he didn’t like cold when it was just cold.  At least in England, cold was accompanied by rain or clouds or snow; cold had a reason.  But here, it seemed cold showed up to every event without a plus one. 

 _How do they stand it?_ John wondered as he watched the various mountain hipsters sitting around him in the cafe.  The most practical of them at least sported a knit beanie tucked behind their ears; the less wise, and they seemed to be the majority, walked around in cargo shorts and organic t-shirts complaining about how dry the season had been.  _Dry?_ John scoffed.  It would be his lot that a blizzard had dumped nearly two foot of snow the week before he and his girlfriend arrived.  The unexpected downfall had thrilled Abby and petrified John, because what he’d intended to be a relaxing, pampered getaway she’d then decided was going to be a weeklong ski festival.

John had done his best to get out of it, trying every clever ruse and argument he’d ever practiced, but she was far more implacable than he’d anticipated, and in the end, terrified as he was, he’d been forced to give in.  They were heading up to some basin or other that very morning.  Abby was keen on an early start, but John refused to even step out of the hotel without caffeine.  It was also a good excuse for him to contemplate further arguments against skiing without her interrupting.  He took another sip of his deplorable Americano and wondered how on earth someone could be less reasonable than his flatmate. 

The door of the café swung open and a blast of cold air hit John full in the face.  He frowned as another group of improperly dressed hipsters sauntered in.   _Have they no courtesy?_ He pushed back his chair, stood, and started scanning for a more sheltered haven.  In his preoccupation with his search, he failed to pay attention as several things happened in quick succession: Abby came flying through the café door, knocking straight into the group of hipsters, knocking one of them into John’s hand, knocking John’s coffee over and onto his jumper. 

“Gah!”  He dropped the cup and stood helplessly as the hot liquid seeped into his shirt. 

“ _Dude_!”  His inadvertent attacker grabbed a pile of napkins.  “Oh man, I’m so sorry.  I am so stupid sometimes,” the man driveled as he patted John down.

“Oh, uh, no, that’s quite alright,” John stammered.  He tried to no avail hold the frantic napkins back.  “Really, I am quite able to clean myself up, thanks very much all the same.”

“No, really, dude, let me get this, man.  It’s my fault.”

“No, please, I can-”  John opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to voice his annoyance.  Finally fed up, he grabbed the man’s hands and tore out the napkins.  “ _Hold off_! I can clean myself up!”

The man stepped back quickly.  “Woah, easy.  I was just trying to help.”

“Well, you’ve helped quite enough for one day, thank you, I’ll take it from-”

“ _John!”_

A shrill voice cut through the mass of hipsters as Abby pushed her way to his side.  “John!  Where in the world have you been? We should have been gone ages ago!”

John stammered.  “Abby, I’m sorry, I was just-”

“Just mucking about with the locals, I can see that.”  She looked him over.  “Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, because you look like shit.”  She grabbed the damp napkins from him.  “Let’s get you cleaned up and then get to the basin.”  She dropped her voice.  “Hopefully there are fewer… _hipsters_ up there.”  The word came out a disdainful hiss.

Unable to protest, John sighed as Abby began another violent pat-down.  “Now, the rental’s waiting out front, I’ve already got-”

“Wait, you two going to A-Basin?”

John’s attacker stood by with a worried look on his face.  Abby gaped.  “I don’t see how it’s any of _your_ business, you criminal.  Knocking into innocent bystanders like that, it’s indecent!”

“Wait, Abby, hold on,” John stepped in front of her towards the man.  “Why, what’s wrong with the basin?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the basin, you just can’t get there.  The road’s closed down.”

Abby stared at him incredulously.  “ _What?_ ”

“You didn’t hear?”  The man turned to his companions.  “Dudes, the Brits didn’t hear yet!”  His proclamation was met with gasps and laughter.  John rolled his eyes.  “Didn’t hear what, exactly?” he prodded.       

“The road’s closed by the _police._ ”  The man leaned in for emphasis, eyes between John and Abby. 

“There’s been a _murder._ ” 

He moved back, waiting for their shock.  John raised his eyebrow expectantly.  “And?”

The man looked confused.  John pursed his lips.  “You might be surprised to know we have murders in England too, and I happen to have some experience with them.  So, and?”

“Oh.  Well, um, it’s this local kid, a girl, they found her in a church up the road on the way into the mountains.”

“When did they find her?”

“NO!” Abby pushed out from behind John and planted herself between the two men.  “No, John, stop it!  You promised we’d have a quiet vacation.”

“Abby, it’s alright, I’m just asking some questions-”

“No, you’re _investigating!_ ”  She scoffed.  “I can see it in your eyes.  It’s all you ever do!  Ask questions, think, puzzle, deduct, and _I’m so sick of it!_ God, if you can’t even stop here, are you ever going to stop?  What kind of life is that?”

“Abby-”

“No, John!  No!  I am not going to put up with this!  I came here to enjoy myself, not tag along while you go crime scene chasing again.  Well, I don’t care what you do, I _am_ going to enjoy myself, alone if I must!  You stay and enjoy your bloody murder!”  She reached behind John, grabbed her bag, and stormed out in a flurry of sputtered curses.

The hipster glanced tentatively at John, who to his surprise seemed a little relieved.   “You, uh, good, dude?”

John blinked and cleared his throat.  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, thanks.”  He pulled out his notepad from his back pocket.  “So, when did they find her?” **  
**

 

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, John was still cold, but this time, he was cold for a reason.  The wind whipped loose bits of the crime scene tape cordoning off the scene, and he buttoned his jumper all the way up.  It still reeked of bad coffee, but it wasn’t wet; the forced pat-downs had done that much good.  He pulled out his notepad and reviewed the scant details his hipster attacker-turned-informant had provided him:

 

_-       vic found in church early morning, maybe 4 a.m._

_-       unidentified_

_-       young woman_

_-       found by druggies (unreliable witnesses???)_

_-       church small, abandoned years ago_

_-       not used for services_

_-       hangout spot for druggies (informant has been there.  Also unreliable???)_

_-       nearby popular hiking trail_

_-       possible connection to previous four disappearances???_

 

John frowned.  It wasn’t much to go on, and though he was dubious on the last point, the hipster’s insistence that the crimes were connected was at least looking into.  The past few years’ experience with witness interviews had taught him that much. 

He flipped the pad closed and tucked it away.  He’d gotten everything he could from his notes, now it was time to see what he could from the scene itself.

The church _was_ small, barely a hundred square feet.  Based on the architecture, it was probably built not long after the city was, say, mid-1800s.  The paint was chipping, weeds covered the foundations, the windows were gone, there was no bell in the roofless tower.  _Abandoned?_ No; the metal handles of the front door were shiny, rubbed by many hands that had recently opened them.  Discarded paper rolls littered the porch.  _Drug hangout for sure.  At least that much is true._

The church doors swung open as a pair of coroner’s assistants gingerly carried a stretcher with the sheet-covered corpse down the crumbling stairs.  John craned his neck to get a better view.  One of the assistants staggered on the last step, and the sheet slipped to reveal one of the victim’s feet.  A bustle of cops hurrying to help the assistants blocked his sight.  He started to move around to get a better view when an engine roar that definitely didn’t belong to a cop car caught his attention.

Behind the church, a black muscle car had pulled up and two tall men in suits were climbing out.  One had hair in a well-groomed mane down to his shoulders, and walked with the authority of a team leader.  The other looked like he was probably hiding tattoos under the suit he didn’t iron and clearly wasn’t comfortable in.  They swaggered up to the police tape and confidently crossed it, flashing FBI badges at the cops that questioned them. 

John watched as they surveyed the church.  They knew their way around a crime scene, that much was obvious, but if those two were FBI agents, John was the Queen. 

He frowned and wished not for the first time that he had a fake ID.  If he could just get close enough to overhear…he frowned harder.  He plunged his hands into his pockets, then, bracing himself, walked over to join the growing crowd of curious bystanders.  He maneuvered himself to be near the front of the crowd, as close to the newcomers as he could get.  He pulled his hand out of his pocket but left it at his side, and did his best to eavesdrop:

“Well, this escalated quickly,” the short one muttered.

“Yeah, ya think?” the tall one retorted.  “This changes everything.  We’ve gotta throw out all our theories.”

The short one grimaced.  “Really?  Square one?”

The tall one looked incredulous.  “It left the body.”  A gust of wind carried the rest of his reply out of earshot.

“Maybe it’s sloppy.”

“You really think that?”

The short one sighed.  “Let’s get a look at the vic before we draw any more conclusions.  This could still be an easy one.”

The tall one let out a laugh.  “In what universe is our job ever easy?”

They were interrupted by the presiding detective.  “Can I help you two?”

The two men pulled out their badges.  “Agents Ford and Hamil, FBI.  You are?”

“Officer Burton, with the local force.  Mind if I ask what the FBI finds so interesting about an open-shut murder case?”

The short one raised an eyebrow.  “You guys that quick, huh?”

Burton rolled his eyes.  “The church is a druggie hot spot in the middle of a bunch of druggie hot spots.  It’s a deal gone bad, plain and simple.  See these things out here all the time.  Nothing strange.”

“So a body completely drained of blood is a regular thing around here?” the short one countered.

“And the murder occurred less than a mile away from the spot of four recent disappearances matching the victim’s profile,” the tall one added.

The officer frowned.  “Don’t ask me what an addict wants with a gallon of blood, and as for the location, that’s circumstantial.  No clear connection, no point checking it out.”

“Not even if the victim was about to go to the very place the disappearances occurred?”  John clasped his arms behind his back as the trio turned to look at him.  All three had puzzled looks, and the short suit even looked a little offended when he snapped, “Who the hell are you?”

John smiled.  “A detective.  More or less.  And you,” he said to Burton as he ducked under the police tape, “should not dismiss that connection so quickly.”

Burton pushed forward.  “Get off my crime scene, civilian.”

“I’m not a civilian,” John countered, still smiling, “and I do have significant experience with these things.  I think you should pay more attention to the details of your scene.”

Burton pursed his lips.  “I am not gonna be told what to do with my own investigation.  You will leave or I will have you removed.”

He started beckoning to a couple of cops when the tall suit stepped forward.  “Hold on, let him say what he thinks.”

“You’re gonna listen to a tourist?”

The tall suit squared his shoulders.  “The FBI is thorough, officer.  We’ll take it from here, thanks.”

Burton narrowed his eyes.  “Five minutes, then I want him off my crime scene.”  He gave John one last glare, then stomped off to consult the coroner.

Satisfied, the tall one extended his hand to John.  “Special Agent Sam Hamil.”

“Doctor John Watson, pleasure.”  John shook Sam’s hand and turned to the short one.  “Agent Ford, then?”

The short one pursed his lips and didn’t meet John’s handshake.  “ _Dean_ ,” Sam interjected sharply.  “My partner, Agent Dean Ford.”

“Pleasure,” John repeated.  Dean gave him a terse smile. 

“Clock’s ticking, hot shot.”

John struggled to keep his smile pleasant.  He cleared his throat.  “I only wanted to point out that the victim was on her way to the same trail on which the disappearances occurred.”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah, but why do you say that?”

John indicated the coroner’s van as he replied, “I got a glimpse of her feet when those oafs almost dropped her.  She was wearing hiking boots, expensive ones, not for amateurs, and not the sort of shoe one would wear to a drug sale.  The Field of Lights Trail is the only trail for several miles.”

“Still doesn’t explain why a teenage girl, walking alone in the middle of the night wanted to go hiking, or why she never made it, or why the kidnapper would suddenly decide to change his M.O. this month,” Dean countered.

John raised an eyebrow.  “I can’t guess her motives, but as for the killer changing tactics, it makes perfect sense.  The trail is closed, and after the third set of disappearances, crawling with police.  Our criminal obviously has a timetable that he can’t violate, and, well, desperate times…”

Sam frowned.  “You make it sound like the other girls are also dead.”

“You honestly think they’re not?”

Sam shifted his feet and didn’t reply.  Dean glanced at his partner as he took over.  “What did you mean by timetable?”

“The disappearances have been occurring regularly each month.  It’s a schedule, and it must be important if it requires a whole body full of blood.  The killer’s already late by a week; he’s desperate, and therefore, sloppy.”             

Dean gave John a sideways look.  “I never said the vics went missing monthly…”

John resumed his pleasant smile.  “A minor deduction, Agent, and besides, I do my research.  Like I said,” he added as he turned to leave, “I do have some experience with these things.”  He nodded at the two men.  “Good day.”

John waited until he was well out of the agents’ sight to pull out his phone.  The bar at the top indicated his wireless signal was strong.  He smiled.  He couldn’t tarry around the scene for suspiciously long, but he predicted only a few minutes further wireless eavesdropping would give him all the information he needed.  He’d easily secured the recording device to Sam’s cuff, and so as long as the agent didn’t dunk his hand in a bucket of water, John would get a first-hand account of everything on that crime scene.  He paused briefly; _this might the first time I’ve ever been truly grateful to Mycroft for anything._ The thought made him shudder.  _Nope, definitely not telling him about this one._ Mycroft’s brother, however, was going to hear about this right away. 

Satisfied and more than a little excited, John dialed up his flatmate.

“Hi, it’s me…no, no, I’m fine, I’ve actually got something rather interesting here, an eight, at least, probably a nine…heh, you won’t say that when you hear what I’ve recorded…I’m in America, so no, I don’t know if it’s legal…of course he wouldn’t approve…are you near a computer?  I’ll send you an email of what I’ve got…no, trust me Sherlock, you’re not going to want to miss this.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean glared menacingly at John’s retreating back before turning on Sam.  “The hell was that?  Since when did we start asking hobbits for case advice?”

Sam held his hands up in defense.  “I dunno Dean, he made some good points…”

Dean pursed his lips.  “Nothing we couldn’t have come up with ourselves.  And besides,” he glared after John again, “he knew too much.  I mean, we never said the disappearances were regular, and he just spouts it off!  And the blood thing, how’d he hear that?”  Dean shifted his weight, annoyed.  “Something’s off with that guy.  I don’t like it.”

Sam sighed.  “Yeah, ok.  We’ll keep an eye open for him, just in case.  Good?”

“Fine, whatever.  Let’s get a look inside the church.”

Sam followed his brother into the small structure.  Thin streaks of light pierced through the broken roof and open windows.  The sanctuary was littered with beer cans, discarded smoke rolls, and other garbage.  The walls were covered in several layers of graffiti, and the crucifix at the end of the nave had been torn down and left in pieces behind the altar.  A pool of dried blood marked where the victim had lain. 

Dean quickly knelt down beside the blood and began examining it.  Sam paused near the entrance and gazed dejectedly at the ruined church.

“Sammy, c’mere, I think I’ve got something.” 

His brother didn’t reply.  Dean stood and repeated, “Sam, we’ve got work to do.”

Sam didn’t meet his eyes as he said, “It’s not right Dean.  People shouldn’t treat a church like this.”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Sam, it’s an abandoned building.”

“It’s holy ground.”

“It _used_ to be,” Dean countered sharply, “or maybe it never was.  Now will you quit your melodrama and get your ass back to work?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, but said nothing and moved over to look at the bloodstain.

“What am I looking for?”

Dean gave his brother one more annoyed glance before explaining, “The air above the blood is colder than the air in the rest of the church.”

Sam reached out his hand to confirm, but pulled it back quickly.  He frowned.  “Ok, that is weirdly cold.”

Dean nodded.  “I mean, a little chill is normal for spirits, but this thing left a mini Hoth.”

 “Ok, so, we’re definitely thinking a spirit?”

“Well, I’d say yeah, except spirits don’t usually kidnap people.  I don’t even think a spirit _could_ kidnap a person.”  Dean rubbed the back of his head as he thought. 

Sam knelt to get a closer look at the stain.  Something moved in the corner of his eye behind the altar.

“Dean.”  He pointed.

Dean moved around and bent down to look.  A pile of pale green goo was seeping out from under the decaying wood.  “Oh, dude…” Dean’s face crumpled in disgust.

“ _Ugh…_ we got ecto.”  He picked some up on a stick to show Sam, who immediately covered his mouth and nose to block out the smell.

“What kind of ectoplasm is _green?_ And reeks???”

“I have no idea, just get a bag or something for me to put this shit in.”

Sam nicked a bag from the remaining crime scene material at the entrance to the church and gingerly wrapped up the goo-covered stick.  Dean shuddered when Sam took the bag from him. 

“Dude, that is nasty.  I mean, seriously fucked up _gross._ ”  He went to wipe his hand on his jacket but thought better of it and held it awkwardly away from his body.  He stared helplessly at Sam. 

“You s’pose this stuff showers off?”

Sam let out a small laugh at his brother’s distress while he examined the ectoplasm.  The goo was opaque, and far thicker than the watery, black ectoplasm spirits normally left behind.  The stench baffled Sam; he’d never encountered anything, much less ectoplasm, that smelled like that.  He shook the bag a little, watching the goo’s viscosity. 

“We should take this back with us, see if Dad knew anything about this sorta stuff.  Also,” he turned to Dean, “I think we have something to call Bobby with.”

“Ya think?” Dean scoffed, still holding out his arm. 

“Dean, I’m pretty sure a little ectoplasm’s not going to kill you.”

“Yeah, but the thing that left it might,” Dean muttered, unconvinced.


	5. Chapter 5

****

**The Field of Lights Motel**

**Late Morning, January 22**

 

The next morning, Dean was showering for the third time and Sam was scrolling through what had to be the hundredth useless website about ghosts.  Whatever Dean teased about his geekiness, Sam hated research, especially when it was getting him nowhere.  He blinked to stretch his eyes as he scanned down the latest website.

_Many curious facts on the genesis of the materializations are observable, for only very rarely do materializations appear abruptly. They form by a concentration of matter around a central nucleus; much as a planet forms in a nebula, or cells by concentration of a protoplasmic material...There first appears a more or less formless mass, which may not even be visible, but which can be felt and seems capable of mechanical action…_

Sam slammed his laptop shut, fell forward onto his elbows and rubbed the lingering glare from the screen out of his eyes.  He had a headache.  He opened an eye just enough to glance at the fridge, trying to decide if he wanted a beer.  This early in the day, he doubted it would help.  As bad as research was, it would be worse if he was drunk. 

“It might not help with the research, but at least it’d dull the headache.  Besides, I have more fun when you’re _tipsy._ ”

Sam shut his eyes again.  He could still see the scrolling screen behind his lids, and he started rubbing them again.

“Ha, yeah, that’ll help.  You might actually have burned computer text into your eyes, you’ve wasted so much time on that crap.”

Sam rubbed harder.

“They’re not erasers, bud!  Scrubbing isn’t going to make them clean.  Admit it, you’re _stuck_.  You’re losing your touch here, Sammy, falling off your game.  You’re not gonna be much help to Dean, or anybody, in this condition.  _You’re useless_.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his fists on the table.  He grabbed his left hand with his right and pushed on his palm, hard.  The hiss of the last word hung in the air, filling his ears like a whine, drowning out almost everything else…

“Sam?”

Instantly the hiss was gone.

Dean stood in the doorway of the bathroom, worry in his eyes.

“Sammy, you alright?  You hear me?”

Sam opened his sore eyes and tried to slow his heavy breathing.  He let go of his hand.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Sam nodded, still trying to breathe slowly.  “Yeah…I am now.”

Dean walked over and put a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “It’s ok, little brother.  You’re gonna be ok.”

Sam just stared at the table.

“Hey, you hear me?” Dean repeated.  “You’re gonna be ok.”  He emphasized each word.  “I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?”  Sam’s voice was quiet.

Dean turned Sam to look him in the eye.  “Because you’re my stubborn-ass little brother and you beat everything you come up against.  And because I’m your dumb-ass big brother and I’m not gonna let anything beat you.  You understand me?”

Sam looked up at Dean and gave him a small smile.  “Yeah.”  He nodded and took a deep breath. 

“Ok.” Satisfied, Dean gave Sam’s shoulder an affectionate shove and walked over to the fridge to grab a beer. 

“Want one?”

Sam shook his head.  “No, thanks.”

“Your loss.”  Dean shrugged, popped his bottle open, then settled in at the table across from Sam.  “Alright, tell me what we got.”

Sam pushed his hair back as he explained,  “A whole bunch of nothing, really.  There’s not much out there on real ectoplasm, and nothing on the green, putrid kind.  I’m not even sure that crap _is_ ectoplasm anymore.”  He opened his computer again.  “Most descriptions of ectoplasm are just reports from séances of white goo forming faces, hands, even whole people sometimes, but they usually turn out to be props.  The closest matching substances to our bag of joy are bug guts and toxic waste.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean spat.  “I knew that shit was gonna kill me.”  He sat back and swigged his beer. 

Sam smirked.  “You’re overreacting.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he spit back into the bottle.  “ _Overreacting?_ I could fall over _dead_ any second and you say I’m overreacting?!”

Dean looked so spooked, Sam laughed out loud.  After a moment, Dean cracked a grin back.  He leaned his head back to take another long drink, hiding his relief with the bottle.  As long as he could make his brother smile, not a brave-little-soldier face, but a _real_ smile, then Sammy was doing OK.

Still cuckling, Sam returned to his computer.  Dean grew quiet as he drank and mulled over their options.  “Did you call Bobby yet?”

Without looking up, Sam nodded.  “He’s got no ideas either, but he’s looking into it.  Maybe his books will be more helpful than this…” he gestured helplessly at the computer. 

“Alright, well, leaving the weirdo toxic bug guts aside, what do we got on the rest of the case?”

Sam sat back and glanced at the wall he’d decorated with their case notes so far.  “What you see is what you get.  Four disappearances and one murder, all within five miles of each other, exactly spread out over the course of three months, except the last one, which was a week late, probably due to the blizzard.  If the murdered victim sets the tone for the rest, then the killer’s after their blood, and not to drink.  At least, not vampire-style.”

Dean raised an eyebrow in question.  Sam explained: “The last vic’s throat and wrists were cut, deep and clean, efficiently, like the killer wanted as much blood as possible in as short a time as possible.  Also, I got a drug screen and coroner’s report back from the precinct while you were…decontaminating yourself.”

“Saving my skin, literally, from death by toxic waste,” Dean corrected.

“Whatever.  Long story short, the girl was heavily drugged, probably unconscious at the time of death, but her heart rate was nearly 400 BPM.”

“How could she be unconscious and have her heart pounding out of her chest?”

Sam shook his head.  “I’ve got no clue, and neither do the coroners.  Whatever that drug was, it was effective.  Stopped the girl from struggling, and pumped out all her blood in a matter of seconds.”

Dean stared at the wall and shuddered.  “That’s just sick.”

Sam nodded in agreement.  There was a brief silence as Dean thought some more. 

“This doesn’t sound like a spirit.”

“Heh, you think?”

“Humans, man.  They’re worse than monsters most times.”  He took another drink.  “Spirit possession maybe?”

Sam turned back to the table.  “That would explain the ectoplasm, or, whatever it is, but not the blood.  What spirit needs five bodies worth of blood?”

Dean just shook his head.  “I dunno, man.”  He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck.  “This is weird.  I mean, full on dingo-ate-my-baby weird.  The hell do we do next?”

Sam tapped his laptop as he answered, “I actually have an idea on that.  I think we should go check out that trail.”  He flipped the computer around to show his brother what he’d found.

“What’s special about it?” Dean asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice for effect.  “ _One of its branches ends on the site of Nikola Tesla’s old laboratory_.”

Dean was unaffected.  “Who?”

“ _Who_?!” Sam repeated incredulously.  “Dude, did you ever pay attention in school?”

“Um, _no._ ”

Sam sighed.  “Well, you should have, the man was a genius.  Like, _real_ genius. Tesla built the first AC motor, developed electromagnetic coils, discovered wireless energy; he practically reinvented electricity after Edison.”

“What’s that got to do with the case?”

“Tesla was a bit infamous for some of his… _stranger_ work with wireless transmissions.  He had a penchant for the supernatural, and at one point he believed he might be able to make otherworldly contact using electric signals.  For example, in 1899 he picked up some rhythmic patterns on his radio and claimed they were alien transmissions.  He built a massive tower to send and receive the same signals.  Some people thought he was trying to make contact back.”

Dean shrugged.  “So he was a genius kook.  That doesn’t mean he actually got anywhere with his alien telephone network.”

“Dean, those experiments didn’t occur until he built his lab and that tower right here in Colorado Springs.  And after he left, he never tried anything like it ever again.”

Dean leaned back.  “Sammy, I know you’re excited about this and all, but I still don’t see how it helps with the case.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “It helps because people think that that land is haunted because of Tesla’s work.  Look, all I’m saying is that the land has some lore, and given what we found today I think it’s worth checking out.  Maybe he really did bring something up by accident.”

“But why would it start acting up now, more than a century after this Tesla guy did his experiments?”

“I dunno.  Could be something to do with the mansion.”

“Mansion?”

Sam nodded.  “Tesla’s lab was torn down and sold after he left.  The land went unused for a few years until one of his old assistants, someone called Andre Kierchev, bought it and built a huge house on the site.  It’s stayed in the family since then, but the owners have managed the estate from Austria for the last sixty or so years.  It’s sometimes opened for tours or rented out to events for the city, but all that just stopped-”

“-lemme guess.”  Dean passed a hand over his eyes.  “Four months ago.”

“Yup.  The current owner showed up and turned all the lights on.”

Dean looked up long enough to give Sam a sarcastic look.

“Seriously dude, all the lights.  The mansion has been sucking up enough electricity to power a whole block of houses.  It’s had five new generators installed since the owner came back.”

“I don’t know how you know that, and I don’t care.”  Dean sighed and finished his beer.

Sam raised a questioning eyebrow.  “I thought getting a lead was a good thing.”

“If by good you mean tramping around a creaky old house in the middle of the night in fucking subartic temperatures.”

Sam chuckled.  “A day in the life, man.”

Dean stood and threw his empty bottle in the trash.  “Well, we can at least get a few hours of shuteye.”  He threw himself down on the bed without another word.  In a few minutes, he was snoring softly.

Sam spent a few more minutes wrapping up his research, enjoying the quiet.  He wasn’t much happier than Dean about that night’s planned escapade, but keeping busy silenced his tormentor, and that was enough to put him in one of the best moods he’d been in for a while.  He smiled as he stepped back from his well-organized wall.  _The game’s getting good._


	6. Chapter 6

****

**The Broadmoor Hotel**

**Evening, January 22**

  

Gold light flooded the hotel room as John opened the curtains to reveal a stunning view.  For all he could complain about Colorado’s weather, the site of the mountains and the fading sun lighting the snow on fire was enough to put any man in the best of moods.  John loved the simple things; he didn’t need an elaborate ski vacation to make his trip worth the while.  He paused a moment in his admiration to worry about Abby, but his concern was quickly banished when the kettle whistled from across the room.  He hurried over and turned off the stove, then poured himself a large cup.  He dropped in a bag of Earl Grey he’d brought over from home.  He knew better than to trust any tea that wasn’t purely British.  Satisfied he’d brewed it just right, he shuffled back to the window and settled into an armchair he’d positioned just so to give him the best view.  As he sipped, he sighed happily and thought, _It’s not home, but it is lovely._

John realized with a slight shock that it had been a while since he’d felt so… _quiet._ The life of an ex-medic-turned-consulting-detective-case-blogger was going to be busier than most, and he loved it, of course, but in that peaceful second John recognized that he had not been restful since…he couldn’t remember.  For a moment he almost missed his early days before he’d met his flatmate.  He shook the thought off before it had even formed properly.  Those days had been quieter, but not for all the peace in the world would he ever wish that he had not met Sherlock Holmes.

Extraordinary was the only word for him.  Extraordinary, in all its senses.  He’d pulled John out of his quiet and thrust him into a world of deafening adventure.  And it wasn’t just the work; for all their differences, Sherlock had grown to be the closest friend John had ever known.  He could remember his life before Sherlock, but now he couldn’t imagine life without him.

As memories of their most recent case flooded John’s mind, his last hope of an uninterrupted evening of rest was lost.  He took a large gulp of tea, set it firmly on the coffee table.  Once the beginnings of a case summary were in his head, he knew he’d get no rest until they were written down.  _The hazards of a loud life,_ he mused, pulling out his computer.  He pondered writing that in the blog, but decided against it when he thought of what Sherlock would say. 

_“Loud?!  You think I’m loud, John?  I only ramble on when you’re not around to listen.  If you’re going to insist on my noisiness then I suggest you mention your own uselessness as an audience.  What’s the point of being noisy if no one is going to hear you?  And don’t go on about trees in forests, I’m in no-”_

A sharp knock on the door jolted John back to reality.  For a moment he just stared grumpily at the door, willing his intruder to leave.  His efforts failed him when the knocker rapped again, harder. 

“Oh, alright, just wait half a moment!”

He set his bulky laptop back on the side table and pushed himself out of the armchair with a huff.  _Who in God’s name could possibly want anything from me tonight?_

He reached out his hand to unlatch the door, calling, “If this is the maid, I’ve no need for room service until the morning, tha-”

He froze midsentence as the door swung open to reveal a tall, slim figure draped in a trenchcoat, wrapped in a scarf, and topped with a dark mess of curls.

“You should know better than to pull the door open so violently, John.  You might scare your visitors away.”

John stood dumbly with his mouth open as Sherlock swept into the room.   
“Close the door, John, it’s cold enough without you letting in a draft.”

John stuttered as he unconsciously obeyed.  “Bu-but, what, how…”

“Wonderful, the kettle’s just gone.”  Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and hung it over John’s armchair.  He slipped out of his trench coat and stood with it in his hand a moment before turning to John and asking, “Is there a place to hang this?”

John finally regained control of his voice.  “What the _hell_ are _you_ doing here?”

Sherlock deflated a bit.  “So you don’t want me to hang this?”

 “ _Would you forget about your bloody coat?_ ”

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look.  “I thought you would be pleased to see me.”

John let out a breath.  “I am, I mean, yes, of course I am, I just…I wasn’t expecting you.”

Sherlock frowned harder.  “What else was I supposed to do after your call?”

“I don’t know, help me, give me some advice-”

“That’s exactly what I’m here to do.”  Sherlock’s eyebrows disappeared under his curls as he puffed up.  “You know I work best when I can see the case with my own eyes.  And though your enthusiasm made your call almost unintelligible, certainly not worth flying across an ocean for, the recording you sent me was too intriguing to resist.”  He brushed past John as he spoke to pull out a hanger.  “But that of course,” he uttered as he put up his coat, “was exactly your intent.”

He stood in front of the closet, triumphant, waiting for John to reply.  The shorter man tried to keep his frown steady, but seeing his friend manifest the anticipation he’d been hoarding was too encouraging.  “I just didn’t think you’d actually fly across the ocean.” John gave Sherlock a small smile.  “That said, I’m not upset that you did,” he conceded.

Sherlock replied with one of his crooked grins.  “Excellent.  Now,” he huffed.  “Mind fetching me a mug?”

John shook his head in lingering disbelief as he walked back to kitchen.  Sherlock strode across the room, surveying their accommodations, before pulling another chair and the coffee table closer to John’s spot by the window.  As John finished the tea, Sherlock set out his computer and began connecting it to a voice analyzer he’d likely bribed Mycroft for.  John settled in across from him, watching Sherlock expertly adjust the device and program to examine the evidence John had collected the day before.  He waited, knowing his flatmate would start talking when he was ready and not before, and that the end result would be well worth a few extra moments of anxious quiet.

Sherlock’s long fingers typed a few lines into the computer, pushed a few buttons on the device, then wove through the air as he started talking.

“The recording you sent me was distorted beyond comprehension, but making a few audible adjustments and some minor assumptions about the conversation allowed me to reconstruct your mystery investigators’ discussion into intelligible, though hardly proper, English.  Based on the manner of speech, they are well-used to crime scenes, intimately familiar with each other, both quick and intelligent, in their opinion more so than the presiding officers at the scene, and that they are capable performers in their job.  Concluding what that might be is more difficult given that their conversation is utter nonsense in light of the facts of the crime.”

“Which,” John interrupted as he set down his mug, “have changed since we last spoke.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his eyes bright with curiosity. 

“Mhm.”  John shuffled through a stack of documents he’d copied from the town hall library earlier that day.  “These aren’t the first disappearances of this kind to happen around that church.  Here, see.”  He pulled out a copy of the front of an old newspaper and handed it to Sherlock.

“March 17, 1905.  Two girls had disappeared the previous December, thought to have been lost in a blizzard.  They found the one body, preserved by snow, completely drained of blood.”

Sherlock gazed at the paper steadily, eyes quickly scanning and, John thought, memorizing the script.  “Fascinating,” he hummed.  He leaned back and steepled his hands under his chin. 

“This does shed some light on our mystery investigators’ conversation.”

“How so?”

Sherlock, smirking, pushed himself forward to lean back over his computer.  “It took not inconsiderable skill to finally extract the words, but the results were certainly rewarding.”

He hit play on the device.  John listened to the sounds of yesterday’s crime scene, sending his mind back to the memory in case the recording triggered any passed over details.  He heard a dying siren, the snap of police tape in the breeze, the crunch of a boot in snow.  Sherlock turned a few dials and the environment faded away, leaving only murmured words that were no longer so quiet. 

_“Well, this escalated quickly.”_

_“Yeah, ya think?  This changes everything.  We’ve gotta throw out all our theories.”_

Sherlock paused the recording.  “Anything familiar?”

John nodded, frowning in concentration.  “Yes, I heard all of this, keep playing.”

_“Really?  Square one?”_

_“It left the body. Dean, when does a werewolf, or a vampire, leave evidence like this?  The body’s almost untouched.  It’s not normal.”_

John sat upright.  “Did he say what I think I heard?”

Sherlock rewound the recording and turned the volume all the way up, and the words could hardly have been clearer: _werewolf, vampire._

“Fairytales,” John scoffed.  “They think fairytales killed those girls?”

“That’s hardly the most interesting piece of the recording; they consider further options once in the church.”  Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in excitement as he fast-forwarded the recording. 

_“The air above the blood is colder than the air in the rest of the church.”_

_“Ok, that is weirdly cold.”_

_“I mean, a little chill is normal for spirits, but this thing left a mini Hoth.”_

_“Ok, so, we’re definitely thinking a spirit?”_

_“Well, I’d say yeah, except spirits don’t usually kidnap people.  I don’t even think a spirit could kidnap a person.”_

Sherlock stopped the recording, his point made.  He sat silent while John blinked at him.

“You don’t…you don’t honestly believe they could be right?”  He leaned back, shaking his head. “No.  No, it’s ridiculous.  There’s no such thing!”

John said it vehemently, as if he was arguing, but Sherlock wasn’t replying.

“Sherlock,” John gaped, “think of Baskerville.  We thought, _maybe,_ there was something…unearthly at fault there, and it turned out to be the work of ordinary men.  It has to be-”

“I am, John.”

“What?”

Sherlock gazed calmly at him.  “I _am_ thinking of Baskerville.  I am remembering how even when we solved the case it wasn’t what we had expected at the start, hardly the work of _ordinary_ men,” he admonished.  “I have since then concluded that when dealing with anything that at first presents a supernatural explanation I should be more cautious in my assumptions.  It’s obvious there is more at work here than the ordinary; whether that something more can be explained through natural causes is the remainder of this case.”

John was still frowning.  “But, how do we even approach this?  And the men, they couldn’t have been insane, but I don’t see how they could actually believe what they were saying.”

Sherlock leveled a mischievous glance at John.  “Why can’t they be insane?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Cuckoos don’t typically have the capacity to flash fake I.D.s, navigate a crime scene, and investigate a body with level heads, you know that’s obvious, why are you even asking?”

A wide smirk spread across Sherlock’s face.  “I enjoy watching you learn.”

John sighed wearily as Sherlock sprang from his chair and strode back to the closet, whipping his scarf from its spot on John’s armchair.  “As for approaching the case,” he crowed, “we go as we always do, Doctor Watson.”

He spun on his heel to face his flatmate, dark eyes sparking with anticipation.  “With gusto.”

 

 

\------------------------------------ 

By the time John and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, the clear sunset that John had so admired had faded into a still, hazy night.  A thick bank of clouds had spilled over the mountains and filled the air below with the heavy premonition of a storm.  There would be no light from the heavens to help the duo in their trespassing that night. 

They’d had the cab take them only as far as the outskirts of the neighborhood to avoid suspicion and walked the rest of the way to the abandoned church.  A small path had been forcefully forged from the church, through When John questioned why they were coming this way and not starting at the proper trail head, Sherlock had sighed and muttered something about re-enacting the night of the crime.  John suspected it had more to do with Sherlock’s aversion to American police than investigative purity, but when he lost the feeling in the first of his extremities he wondered if a little cajoling for a shorter walk would have been less bothersome than all this damned _cold._ His jumper was ideally suited for chilly nights at home, but in the mountains it did little to stave off the seeping frost.  And it still smelled like coffee.

John folded his arms and sighed loudly, watching his breath fog in the air.  A cloud of fog a little ahead and above John was the only sign of Sherlock in the darkness.  The detective was walking quickly, likely from excitement, John thought.  A bubble of anticipation bounced in his own stomach as he marched, his feet crunching noisily in the frost.  There was something particularly thrilling about semi-legal activity in a foreign country.  In England a word to Lestrade or Mycroft would absolve them of the worst wrongs; here, there was no telling what would happen if they were caught. 

John marveled at his own inconsistency.  How could he have been so grateful just a few hours ago for the quiet that would now send him screaming to a sanitarium?  _It must be Sherlock,_ but that was a convenient thought.  _I’m just a man of action,_ he mused.  _Breaks are nice, now and again, but this,_ he sucked in a long draught of mountain air, _this is truly thriving._

John was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t see the branch Sherlock had pushed out of his way until after it had smacked John in the face. 

“ _Gah!_ Sherlock!  A little care, please,” he whined as he rubbed his stinging forehead.

Sherlock turned with a caustic glare.  “Perhaps if you focused more on your footfalls and less on your internal monologue you could spare both of us some pain.”

“I don’t see you nursing a slapped head.”

“It becomes increasingly painful to think clearly when one is bombarded from behind by incessant racket.  Honestly, John, I’m surprised you haven’t woken every animal, addict, and cop within five miles with your stomping and huffing.”

“What’s got you so wound up?” John winced, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock as he rubbed his injured head.

“ _I’m thinking_ and you’re putting me off!”

“Putting you off?  Sherlock, we’re tramping through a forest in the dead of night behind police lines going to a haunted mansion, this isn’t exactly a time to be annoyed at being _put off._ ”

Sherlock just sighed and resumed walking.  John continued his diatribe as he trudged behind the detective.

“We could be found by police or wolves or worse and they’re going to be a lot more distracting than me.”

“I.”

John paused.  “What?”

“Than _I,_ John.”

John opened his mouth to snap back, but Sherlock turned around suddenly and cut him off.

“Why did you say the mansion was haunted?”  His dark eyes narrowed the same way they did when he found something unexpected under his microscope. 

John blinked and shrugged.  “I read it in my research earlier, the locals think the place is haunted.”  
“Why?”

“Some scientist or another performed his experiments there.  People thought he was trying to contact aliens or spirits, that he succeeded, and now the grounds are haunted by them.”

“Do you have a name?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet but increasingly insistent.

“No, I don’t remember.  Why, is it important?”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he turned to continue walking.  “ _Everything_ is important, John.”

Sherlock was silent for the rest of the walk, now too absorbed in his thoughts for even John’s marching to annoy him.  John guessed there was more to Sherlock’s discomfort than trouble thinking.  He knew his friend had been unsettled by their adventure in Baskerville, but in the months since he believed Sherlock had put the memory of those fearful moments of doubt to rest.  Now he wondered if those doubts had never quieted at all and had stopped their lurking to attack Sherlock’s mind again.  For his friend’s sake, John hoped more than anything he was wrong. 

After another twenty minutes, the dirt path gave way to stony steps that cut steeply through the frosty underbrush.  They were now fully onto the mountain, and more than once John had to use his hands to steady himself as they climbed.  Sherlock seemed to float over the trail, his long legs rising and falling in a steady rhythm.  Just when John didn’t think his frozen hands could pull him over one more rise, the path and forest abruptly ended. 

The pair found themselves standing on a gravel road that cut cleanly through the woods.  To the north it disappeared around a bend; to the south it led to a wide wrought-iron gate bookended by tall brick columns.  A single electric lamp cast a thin circle of light around the gate.  It was too dark to see anything beyond. 

John shuddered as they approached.  He could swear the air around them was tingling, but his more rational half blamed it on his nerves and the cold.  Sherlock strode over to the gate, glancing down to pull his lock pick from inside his coat.  John suddenly reached out, stopping Sherlock’s arm with one hand and pushing gently on the gate with the other.  It swung open slowly, the chains that had closed it dangling where they’d been cut. 

Sherlock bent down to examine them.  “Recent, probably from earlier tonight,” he declared as he straightened.  He glanced back at John, whose only response was to pull out his gun and nod. 

With a small smile, Sherlock followed suit, and they pushed through the gate together.

Aside from the lamp behind them, there was no light on the grounds.  The darkness was so complete and the air so still, John felt the mansion materialize in front of them before he saw it, or rather, didn’t see it.  The outline of the building was even darker than the cloudy sky above.  John had the impression of approaching a shadow and almost felt surprised when the front stoop turned out to be solid.

Sherlock climbed the steps quickly, pausing only to silently draw John’s attention to the already open door before slipping inside.  John swept one last gaze around the gloomy yard.  His eyes lingered on the steady light from the lamp at the gate.  The first wind John had felt that night blew cold and quick from the west, announcing the coming storm.  It felt sharp across his face and he blinked.  When he opened his eyes, the light was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Kierchev Mansion**

**Night, January 22**

 

 

“Dean, did you hear something?”

Dean lowered his gun and turned to his brother with wide eyes.  “Oh my god, Sammy, I think I did!  What if it’s a g-g-ghost?” 

He ducked quickly to avoid Sam’s half-hearted punch.

“Shut up.”

Dean chuckled as he turned back down the dark hallway, his gait smooth and confident.  He held his gun and flashlight steady, methodically peering into rooms and down other hallways.  Sam followed close behind, the beam of his flashlight wobbling a little as he balanced it on top of his gun.  He gripped both tightly and cringed every time a floorboard creaked beneath his or Dean’s weight. He tried to tell himself this job was no different than any normal haunting, but something in the air tingled in the back of his mind.  He tried to shake it off, squaring his jaw, pushing back his hair, focusing on the case, but his senses kept wandering back to the unnatural chill that seemed to fill every room and he couldn’t help but shiver.

When Sam tensed for the fourth time at a gust of wind, Dean stopped with an exasperated sigh. 

“What the hell is wrong with you tonight?  You’re so tense, you’re making _me_ touchy.”

Sam started to protest but thought better of it.  If something really was wrong in the mansion, his brother needed to know.  “I dunno, there’s just…something’s not right, Dean, can’t you feel it?”

“I can feel my balls freezing off if that’s what you mean.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “You know what, just forget it.”

Dean held out his arm to stop his brother from walking off.  “No, hang on.  Look, you’ve always been a little more…in tune with this sorta stuff,” he gestured vaguely at the dark, “so I believe you if you say there’s something more going on here than just a few angry spirits.  But if that’s the case, all the more reason for us to quit talking and start ganking.  We can handle whatever’s in here ‘cause I’m sure we’ve handled worse.”  He looked Sam square in the eyes.  “So you good?”

Sam adjusted his gun and nodded.  “Yeah, I’m good, let’s just do this and get out of here.”

“I like the sound of that.”  Dean lifted his gun and flashlight back to eye level and moved around the next corner.  A few stone stairs led down into the large servants’ kitchen.  A wooden table set had been pushed up against the far wall next to a small fridge.  Dean walked over to the wall of cabinets next to the door.  Sam went to the opposite wall, eyes drawn to a smear on the fridge he’d glimpsed with his flashlight.

Dean surveyed the cabinets.  All except one were open and empty, but the one nearest the door was padlocked.  He holstered his gun and switched his flashlight to his other hand to examine it. 

“ _Dude, check it out!_ ”  They both spoke at the same time, startling the other.  Sam deferred.  “You first.”

“This cabinet’s locked with an iron padlock and both are covered in protective symbols.  There’s like, six pentagrams on here.”

“Well there’s another one drawn on the fridge, and it’s in blood.”

Dean grimaced.  “Whoever this nutjob is, he’s hardcore.  I could take a sledge hammer to this thing and break the hammer before I got it open.”

“I wonder what’s in there.”  Sam frowned and turned to survey the rest of the room.  He paused when he saw the trapdoor to the basement.  “Maybe we can get this open.”

Dean stood and joined Sam, who had the lock off in moments.  Each brother grabbed a handle and pulled up on the doors, sending a piercing shriek reverberating through the mansion.  Sam jumped, dropping his side, and a booming echo followed on the heels of the shriek.  

 

 

 

Sherlock and John sprang alert as a high-pitched scream pierced the walls from the opposite side of the mansion, followed immediately by a deep crash.  John glanced at Sherlock worriedly. 

“Another girl?”

“No, that was mechanical.”  He turned to John, his eyes bright with fiendish excitement. 

“I think we’ve found our fellow intruders.”  Sherlock swept back to the door of the sitting room they were searching and into the hallway, holding his gun at eye level.  John bounded after him into the dark, clumsily stowing his now unnecessary flashlight.  He kept close behind Sherlock as they ran, no longer checking each room but following the sound towards the back of the mansion. 

They stayed as quiet as they could while hurrying through the wide halls, but care couldn’t muffle their footfalls as they burst into the foyer.  Their rapid steps echoed back to them from all sides of the room and followed them down the next hallway.

  

Dean reached the bottom of the cellar and his flashlight flickered.  He cursed and hit it a few times.  It reluctantly began glowing again, dimmer than before.  He shook his head and swung it around the cellar.  By the stairs were another fridge, a table, and a line of bloodstained jars.  Across the room thick blankets hid a massive bulk with wires and tubes snaking from underneath out to a panel of plugs.  A section of the bulk’s base glinted as Dean shone his flashlight on it.  Curious, he took a step forward.  The air in the cellar chilled in the same moment and Dean stopped. 

“Uh, Sammy?”

“Dean?”

“Did you feel that?”

“Yup.”

“Ok.”

Dean heard his brother take a step forward.  The air chilled again and Sam’s flashlight flickered.  He stopped moving.  Dean didn’t take his eyes off the bulk.

“How many do you think are in here?” Sam muttered.

Dean shrugged as he cautiously looked around.  “Half a dozen, probably more.”  As if to prove his point, the air immediately in front of him cooled a full ten degrees.  Dean slowly pulled his salt gun back out.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward to take another step.

“Dean, wait!”

“That _thing_ over there has something to do with this-”

“No, Dean, shut up!  I heard something.”

Dean reluctantly tore his gaze from the bulk to look at his brother.

“What?”

Sam frowned.  “It sounded like-”

The floorboards above their heads creaked as two distinct sets of feet crossed over.

“- _footsteps_.”

 

 

 

Sherlock arrived at the bottom of the cellar steps gun at the ready.  By the light of two dying flashlights, he recognized who he deducted were John’s fake FBI agents.  John had done an admirable job describing them: physically well built, professionally trained, familiar with using force.  They were also capably aiming their guns at his chest. 

John came down behind him and whipped his gun up when he saw Sam and Dean.  Dean narrowed knowing eyes as Sam balked, “ _You_?”

John tilted his head in acknowledgement.  “Me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“And who the hell even are you?” Dean added harshly.

“We should ask the same of you,” Sherlock purred, his deep voice echoing in the room. 

“You first,” Dean demanded. 

“I never talk about myself on the first stand-off.”

“Funny, I’ve got the same policy.”

“That’s quite alright, why you’re here is far more relevant than who you are.”

“I bet your royal majesty’s answer is even better than mine.”

“You’re not far off on that,” John interjected.  Sherlock smirked.  John stepped around him to face Dean.  “I wasn’t lying earlier when I said I was a detective.  Actually, _we_ are, and we’re just doing our jobs here.  We’d appreciate it if you’d let us.”

“Yeah, well, since this isn’t your continent, you don’t have jurisdiction.”

“You don’t either,” Sherlock countered. 

Sam flipped open his FBI badge.  “I think we do.”

“Obviously fake.”

Dean pursed his lips.  “Why don’t we arrest you two yahoos and then you can tell us how fake it is.”

“That’s highly ambitious of you considering you have no precinct, no vehicle, no back up, and thus no real way of subduing us.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.  “Oh really?  Just give me one good excuse, princess, and I’ll take you down.”

Sherlock’s smirk widened to an impish grin.  “As tempting as that sounds, I usually prefer top.”

“Sherlock…” John breathed out an exasperated sigh.  His breath formed a pure white cloud and he suddenly realized how cold it had gotten. 

He wasn’t the only one to notice.  Sam’s eyes widened when he saw John’s breath.  He pulled his gun off Sherlock and aimed towards John.  Both Dean and Sherlock’s smiles vanished in the same moment. 

“Shoot my friend and I’ll kill yours.”  Sherlock’s voice was a hiss and his words came out in white gasps. 

“I’m not aiming at him.”  Sam leveled his gun at the air just next to John.  “You should move.”

John met Sam’s focused eyes for only a second before Sam fired.  Hot salt flew past John’s face as he dropped to the ground.  The air where he had stood exploded in white light and a shriek filled the room.  John rolled up onto his knees and a force that felt like solid ice slammed him against the wall.  A burning cold covered his body and nearly paralyzed him with pain.  Sherlock started to move towards him before he too was knocked to the ground and pinned.  John saw the air above his friend vibrating as Sherlock gasped for air.  Another shotgun blast echoed in the room and Sherlock was sprayed with salt fired from Dean’s gun.  The vibrating air burst with light and another shriek.  Coughing, Sherlock pushed himself up onto his hands. 

“Help John!” he gasped at Dean.

Dean raised his gun at the air pinning John.  A force shrieked past him, knocking the gun from his hand and him to the ground.  Sam fired and missed, then spun and fired at John before getting hit.  John squeezed his eyes shut as the light burst in front of him and the force released him.  He fell to the ground, his limbs weak and burning.  Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and stumbled past John to his fallen gun.  He picked it up and raised it at the closest area of vibrating air. 

“ _Don’t!_ ” Dean yelled from across the room just as Sherlock fired.  The bullet pierced the air and buried itself in the blanket-covered bulk.  The vibrations vanished.  Sam slid gasping to the floor while Dean hauled himself up to grab his gun.  John was panting against the wall. 

“What happened?” he breathed.

Sam stood painfully, using the table to support himself.  “I think we just made them angry.”

John raised his eyebrows in fearful confusion.  “ _Them?_ ”

Everyone jumped as the cellar doors slammed shut.  The bulbs in Sam and Dean’s flashlights burnt out with sharp pops leaving the group in total darkness. 

“Son of a bitch.”  Dean threw down his flashlight, ran up the stairs, and pushed on the door, but the heavy iron didn’t move an inch.   Still cursing, he jumped back down the stairs.  Sam had somehow retrieved his gun and was fumbling with the shells to reload it.  A shell slipped from his hand, spilling salt into a puddle of water near the fridge.  John heard Dean grab the gun and shells from his brother and reload both their guns.  John took a steadying breath and turned to where he guessed Sherlock was. 

“What just happened?” he whispered.

“A gust of wind, naturally.”  The detective’s calm tone did little to mask his worry; John could hear his heavy breathing.

John pushed himself off the wall.  “I don’t mean with the door, I mean just now, with…Sherlock, please, what the hell is going…on…”  His voice faltered as a high-pitched whine emanated from the bulk across the room.  At the same moment, a blue spark flashed from the puddle by the fridge.  The spilled salt had dissolved into the water, which was now vibrating in the same pattern the air had been moments before and sending off small, bight sparks.  Dean cursed again and pushed Sam back from the puddle. 

“Go try the door, you might be able to get it open.”

“Dean-”

“ _Go!_ ”

Dean kept his eyes and gun trained on the sparking water as Sam climbed the stairs to the door.  Even with his full weight pushing against it, the door stayed firmly shut.  The whine from the bulk was getting louder and the blue sparks growing brighter, illuminating the room in sudden pale flashes.  Dean backed away from the water and the bulk, shouting at Sherlock to help Sam.  The detective didn’t move.  His gaze bounced between the water and the bulk before he shut his eyes in concentration.  John realized what was happening and moved to help Sam in Sherlock’s place. 

“What the hell is he doing?”  Dean glared at Sherlock. 

“Just leave him alone for a moment!” John shouted back from the cellar door.  Sam was preparing for another valiant shove before John stopped him.  He ran his hands along the sides of each door.  “The hinges have been welded shut, it’s no use!”

“How the hell did they get _welded?_ ” Sam panted.

“It hardly matters now, we have to find a way to break them.”

“Why doesn’t your friend just shoot them?  Or do anything other than sit on his ass!” Dean snapped.

“He’s _thinking_ , probably of a way out!”  John was yelling to be heard over the whine.  As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock opened his eyes with sudden panicked realization and locked his gaze on John.

“ _It’s going to explode!_ ”

Sam gaped.  “What?!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain but the whining had become unbearably loud.  He pressed his hands over his ears.  Sam was wavering between following suit and continuing to shove on the door.  John stumbled back down the stairs, trying to talk to Sherlock, but it was useless.  The ringing was too painful, like needles piercing through his eardrums.  He gripped his ears in a futile attempt to shut out some of the sound. 

By some miracle Dean was still moving despite the drowning noise.  Desperate for anything to help open the door, he staggered to the bulk, gripped the tarp, and ripped it off.

A figured rolled out from the mass of vibrating machinery and slammed into Dean, knocking them both to the ground.  The figure recovered first, leaping to his feet and throwing up an arm at the cellar door.  Something in his hand glowed green and emitted a low hum and the doors promptly swung open.  The figure dropped his arm, pulled Dean to his feet, and yelled at the group, “ _RUN!_ ”


	8. Chapter 8

 

The next several moments were chaos.  John was the first one out of the cellar.  Sherlock shoved Sam out immediately behind.  Sam twisted away to go back for Dean, but his brother bounded up right after Sherlock.   Behind them a tall, wiry man was pointing a small glowing stickat the cellar as he came up the stairs backwards.  He spun around when he reached the top and pointed his stick at the cellar doors, which shut with a clang.  The man threw his arms in the air, waving the group on.

“Run, get out, go _now_!” he shouted. 

To Sam’s surprise, Sherlock was the first to obey, bounding out of the kitchen with John on his heels.  Sam hesitated to follow, waiting for Dean to make the call, but the strange man decided for them both.  He grabbed each of their shoulders and pushed them ahead of him.  Their legs acted instinctively and they tore off after John and Sherlock.

“What the hell are we running from?” Dean shouted.

Sam whipped his head back to look at the strange man.  He’d stopped and was pulling the kitchen door shut when he saw Sam slow down.  His eyes widened in panic. 

“Don’t stop, keep-”

A blast of fire threw the man to the ground as a deafening explosion rocked the mansion.  Sam flung up his arm to protect his face as he fell backwards into the hallway.  His ears were ringing from the force of the explosion.  He shook his head a few times to try to clear the noise, but the whine only got louder and louder.  The strange man scrambled to his feet, retrieved his metal stick, and stumbled forward to pull Sam up.  The man’s mouth was moving as if he was shouting, but Sam could only hear the whine.  He seemed to be saying _Run!_

 _What from?_ Sam kept thinking.  Then he saw, materializing behind the man, one of the presences from the cellar.  The man saw Sam’s eyes widen.  He spun around and pointed his metal stick at the presence, pushing Sam on with his other hand.  Sam needed no more convincing.  He ran as hard as he could, and when he caught up to Dean, he grabbed his brother’s arm and yelled at him to go faster.

“What’s going on?  What happened?” Dean shouted as he heard the whine start again.

Sam didn’t answer, just pulled on Dean’s arm as he passed him.  The pair skidded around the last corner in the hall and barreled into the foyer, where to their surprise, John and Sherlock were waiting. 

“What the hell?” Dean gasped incredulously.  “Open the damn door!”

John shook his head, panting.  “It’s shut, same as the cellar.” 

Sam pushed past him and rammed into the thick oak. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered.

Dean turned on him.  “What did you just say, princess?”

“Force did nothing to help us earlier, it will do nothing to help now.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.  “ _Help?_ ”  The world came out a growl.  “You’ve got no room to talk.  You’ve been the least helpful of anybody here.”

“I’ve been quite useful, you’ve just not taken a moment to hear what I have to say.”

Dean balled his fists in frustration.  “Shutting down like a scared brat while the rest of us were trying to find a way out?  You call that helpful?  Hell, you started all this when you went trigger-crazy down there.”

“What all this,” Sherlock gestured vaguely, “is, is precisely why I’ve spent my time actually thinking things through.  We are supposed to be investigating, though I seem to be the only one interested in finding the truth.”

“Heh, then you’re even further behind than I thought.  We know the truth, you’re the ignorant idiots who screwed this whole damn thing up!”

“Do be gracious and share this certainty of yours.”

“ _Ghosts_ , princess,” Dean answered sharply.  “We’re fighting ghosts that you’ve seriously pissed off, so either you to shut your useless pie hole and let the professionals do the work from now on or you and your buddy are gonna get shot yourselves.”

Sherlock tensed at Dean’s threat, though whether his concern was for himself or for John, Sam couldn’t tell.  Dean was breathing heavily and in a position to pounce on Sherlock at any second.  Sam stepped forward to pull his brother back.  “Dean-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish.  The strange man burst into the foyer, swung his arm up and examined his metal stick worriedly.  The buzzing changed pitch and he threw his arm in the air.  A few slams and several clicks echoed in the room as all the entrances and their locks shut.  After another moment of frantic waving, the whine emanating from the hall quieted.

“There,” the man breathed.  “That should hold them for just long enough.”  He spun around to face the bewildered group clustered around the door.  “Ah.  I believe introductions are in order.”  He straightened up and pushed his hand out at Sherlock.  “Hello, I’m the Doctor.”

Sherlock leveled a stoic gaze at the man and did not return his handshake.  The man lowered his arm awkwardly and fiddled with his bowtie. 

“Doctor?  Doctor who, exactly?” John questioned. 

The man grinned at John.  “Just the Doctor.  And you are?”

John crossed his arms.  “Also a doctor, but I’ve got credentials.”

The Doctor’s eyebrows shot up under his unruly bangs.  “Ah, yes, credentials!  I have them…right…”  He fumbled around in his tweed jacket.  “Here!”  He pulled out an I.D. and passed it in front of the group.  Sam peered over Dean to read, “Detective Inspector, Ph.D.” next to a picture of the man. 

“There’s no name,” he commented.

The Doctor flipped it shut and tucked it away.  “Don’t need a name, people call me the Doctor and that’s plenty.  But you all, you all have names and I’m very much interested in learning them.”  He gazed eagerly at Dean, who answered by raising his gun to the Doctor’s chest.

“I’m the guy who’s gonna fuck you up if you don’t explain what the hell is going on here.”

The Doctor’s face was unchanged, though Sam thought he saw the glimmer in the man’s eyes dim.

“I promise I’ll explain everything soon, but I need two things first: names and a plan.  The plan I’ve almost got, so while that’s still cooking I would like to get names.”

“Why?” Sam asked.

“I’ve noticed that for some reason people run faster when I include their names when I yell at them, and considering that in about five seconds we are all going to have to run very, very fast, I think it would be a good idea to share names.”

The whine had spread from the hallway and now emanated from all sides, growing more intense with every moment.  The air in the foyer was starting to vibrate. 

Dean glanced at Sam, who glanced at John, who glanced at Sherlock, who glanced back at Dean, who sighed and lowered his gun. 

“Winchester.  I’m Dean, this is Sam.”

“Sherlock Holmes, and my associate, Dr. John Watson.”  Sherlock put a slight emphasis on John’s title.

The Doctor grinned.  “Fantastic, absolutely brilliant.  Now, Dean, Sam, Sherlock, John, get ready to run for your lives.”

He pointed his stick at the door.  Sparks flew as the hinges broke and it fell open.  The breeze that had picked up when the group had entered the mansion had grown and brought a powerful rainstorm over the mountains.  Sheets of freezing rain pelted the courtyard, illuminated for split seconds by flashes of lightening.  Thunder crashed immediately on the heels of the lightening and shook the entire mansion.  With a wild whoop, the Doctor leapt down the stairs and into the tempest.

The group burst out of the foyer not a moment too soon.  A flash of lightening lit up the yard and all the doors in the mansion crashed open.  The whine had the power of a thousand screams as the vibrations poured out after the group.

After two wild, ineffective shots, Sam and Dean were out of ammo and unable to halt the forces.  Sam ran as close behind Sherlock’s flapping coat as he could, wondering if they really could outrun ghosts.  It certainly wasn’t something he and Dean had tried before. 

The group flew through the graveled yard towards the back of the house.  The main yard was divided from a small garden by a short wall that the Doctor and Sherlock cleared with ease.  Just as John placed his hands to vault it, a burst of lightening illuminated a vibration materializing right above him.

“Get down!” Sam yelled.  He threw himself at John and pushed them both over the wall.  They landed roughly in heap in a muddy puddle, earning Sam an angry shove as John stood to keep running.  The combination of cold, wet, and lingering pain from the force that had pinned him in the cellar made Sam’s legs shake.  He slipped on the slick gravel on his first attempt to stand.  Dean vaulted the wall, hardly breaking stride to pull Sam up and push him on. 

“Keep moving, Sammy!”

“Where are we running?”

“The hell should I know?  Just keep-”

Dean was cut off when a vibration materialized in front of them.  Dean tried to push Sam to one side to dodge it when another appeared and hemmed them in.  Thunder and lightening filled the yard and the vibrations thickened into shapes.  Sam had just enough time to think that they looked nothing like the ghosts before a green light flashed behind them and they vanished with a screech.

The Doctor lowered his silver stick.  “I can’t keep them all back, keep running boys!  We’re nearly there!”

“Nearly where?” Sam demanded, pushing a piece of dripping hair out of his face.

“Our ride out of here!”

“We got out ride on the other side of the house, we can get out of here with that,” Dean countered.

“Mine’s closer.”  The Doctor wasn’t budging.

“But I can’t – ”

Another crash of thunder shook the house.  Shapes were materializing all around them now.  The Doctor lunged forward and grabbed the Winchesters’ jackets, pulling them away from the wall.  “No time for that now!” he declared.  Turning, he saw John and Sherlock had paused at the edge of the garden.  “Keep going, it’s just behind the shed there!” he shouted over the storm, bounding forward to take the lead again.

Sam knew Dean wanted to continue protesting to go back for the Impala, but if they didn’t move now they wouldn’t even make it to whatever ride the Doctor had.  He put a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder to keep him from turning back.  “Just go, Dean, we’ll figure something out!”

Dean cursed loudly, but followed Sam to catch up with the others.

The Doctor had vanished at the end of the yard, but the group could hear him yelling at them to hurry.  More lightening illuminated the yard and the thunder and the whine nearly drowned out the Doctor’s shouts.  The men were physically dodging materializing shapes now in a desperate attempt to get across the yard.  John made it first, sliding in the mud as he rounded the shed.  A large wooden blue box greeted him with its doors open.  He stumbled to regain his balance and when he looked up, froze in his tracks. 

Sherlock managed to slow enough not to run into John, and Dean used the shed to stop himself when he saw the backup.  Sam was less prepared, and slammed full force into the group, knocking them all forward and into the box.  He realized his mistake the moment he made it and waited for the hard thud of bodies ramming into a cramped space.  Instead, he felt himself roll with the others onto a spacious metal floor and heard a creaky door slam shut.

“Fantastic, everyone in, let’s get the hell out of here!”  The floor shifted violently as the Doctor shouted, “ _Geronimo!_ ”


	9. Chapter 9

 

The Doctor was certainly used to having large groups of people in the TARDIS; sometimes, in fact, he rather enjoyed it.  This was not one of those times. 

Though he managed to get the TARDIS off the ground, getting it any higher than that was proving increasingly difficult.  The forces were working in conjunction with the storm to create a powerful electromagnetic field that was not only tampering with the TARDIS’ navigation systems, but also her neural circuitry, astrometric readouts, internal spatial processors, external spatial processors, the swimming pool…the Doctor realized in a rush that not only had he been chattering out loud, he’d also forgotten perhaps the most relevant system that was not functioning properly: the stabilizers. 

All four of his guests were rolling across the floor, scrambling for something to grab on to as the TARDIS spun wildly from the buffeting forces.  Sherlock seemed to be the only one not shouting, though he did appear the most disturbed.  Sam’s weight was causing him to slide the most violently, while John was just trying to stay near Sherlock.  Dean was clearly terrified; the Doctor wondered for a moment if the TARDIS carried enough oxygen to fuel his screams for long. 

Another violent shift forced the Doctor to concentrate again.  Giving all his guests concussions was not going to be a positive introduction.  With one hand on a lever he was pretty sure would keep the TARDIS on course, he slid around the console, threw up a leg, and hoped he hit the gravity control.  The sudden weight pinning him to the console was his answer. 

“Don’t panic, everyone, it’s just temporary while I steady the old girl!”  Satisfied his guests would shift less easily now, he turned his attention to getting past the buffeting forces.  Half a dozen equally insane ideas filled his head, and he settled on the one that would require the least movement.  Leg still draped across the console, he slowly stretched his extra-heavy arm towards a series of small levers.  Using only one finger, he flipped them one by one, grunting at the effort.  The TARDIS gave one last violent spin before surging upwards and finally going still. 

The Doctor breathed a relieved laugh and pulled his leg off the console, returning the gravity to normal.  He fell off to the floor, still laughing. 

“Woo!  What a ride!  Old girl’s got some gumption yet, doesn’t she?”  He lifted his head, grinning while he waited for a cheery reply.  It didn’t come.

John was slumped on the floor against a pillar, wide eyes scanning the TARDIS in panic.  Sherlock had managed to get his feet under him, but his deathly pale face indicated he was unlikely to do much beyond stand for a few minutes.  A scuffle behind him made the Doctor turn to the other side of the TARDIS where Sam was trying to keep a gasping Dean from standing.  Dean would have none of it, and shoved his brother away as he forced himself up.  He reached under his jacket, pulled out a silver pistol, and shakily pointed it at the Doctor. 

“Dean!”  Sam leapt up. 

“Shut it, Sammy.  I want answers, NOW!”  Dean grasped his gun with both hands, trying to steady it as he climbed the stairs to the console.  The Doctor slowly rose to his feet as Dean approached. 

“What are you?  What is this place?  Where are you taking us?”  Dean didn’t stop until he was close enough to touch the Doctor’s head with the tip of his gun.  The Doctor held up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“Now, Dean, just take a breath, calm d-”

“NO!  Damn it, you talk or I shoot.”

The Doctor met Dean’s gaze and spoke quietly.  “I’m here to help you, you’re not in danger, not any more, please, Dean, put the gun down and I’ll explain.”

Dean pushed the gun against the Doctor’s head.  “So explain.”

“Dean!”  Sam called again.  Dean ignored him.  The Doctor watched a bead of sweat drip down Dean’s clenched jaw.  He swallowed.  “It’s alright Sam, he’s not going to hurt me,” he said without breaking his gaze from Dean.

“You want answers, I’ll give them.  I’m the Doctor, I’m here to help.  This is my ship, the TARDIS, it’s a time machine, it’s bigger on the inside and it flies.  We’re orbiting nearly 20,000 miles above Earth right now.”

“You’re lying.”

“I have no reason to lie to any of you, and I can prove it if you just put the gun down.”  The Doctor gently emphasized the last few words. 

“Dean, listen to him,” Sam pleaded from below them.

“Does this feel right to you, Sammy?  He’s hiding something.  He’s a trickster, or a demon, hell, he could even be an angel, you wanna trust that?” Dean growled.

“I don’t trust him, but he did just save our lives.  Give him a chance to explain himself.” 

“Listen to your brother, Dean,” the Doctor said quietly.  “I’m not anything you’ve ever met before, I have no reason to hurt you.  Let me prove it.”

Keeping his eyes on Dean, the Doctor slowly lowered his hand to the console and pushed a button.  The TARDIS door swung open with a creak.   
“Oh…my…god…” John breathed. 

The Doctor was still staring at Dean, who was reluctant to lower his gun.  His eyes were full of doubt, anger, and fear; the Doctor felt a sudden wave of compassion he hoped his own eyes expressed.    
“Dean…” Sam’s voice was filled with awe.  With a last uncertain glare at the Doctor, Dean finally dropped his arms and turned to look.  The doors had opened to show the wide curve of the Earth with the Sun just beginning to peek over the rim, a blue-green gem glowing softly under the thin line of light separating it from the unfathomably deep black beyond. 

The Doctor watched some tension leave Dean’s body as he walked down the steps to stand next to Sam by the door.  The Doctor felt his own shoulders relax and adjusted his bowtie as he smiled at the backs of the entranced company. 

“It is magnificent, that planet.  You don’t always think that when you’re down there, but up here, it’s the only thing you can think.”  He leaned fondly against the TARDIS console as he spoke.

“It’s impossible,” Sherlock whispered.  John broke his stare on the planet to gaze wide-eyed at his friend. 

“It’s incredible and amazing, how are we…” He stopped when he saw Sherlock’s face.  The Doctor saw John’s gaze change from awe to deep concern when he saw the pale fear in Sherlock’s eyes.  The Doctor had known the detective would take this revelation the hardest, but he was still surprised at how emotional Sherlock was becoming as he attempted to reconcile what he saw with what he knew.  _He’s lucky to have John,_ he mused.  _Together we’ll make a believer of him yet._

The Doctor turned his attention to the Winchesters.  They’d moved a bit away from John and Sherlock, and though Dean was visibly calmer, he looked upset by the stupid grin Sam couldn’t seem to lose.  The two were arguing in muted tones, Dean gesturing harshly and Sam repeatedly pushing his still-damp hair from his head.  The Doctor nodded to himself.  _Time for a proper explanation._ He cleared his throat.  The company turned in unison.  With his most winning smile, the Doctor asked, “Who’s hungry?  I know a lovely local spot for a late dinner.”


	10. Chapter 10

****

**A Mexican Restaurant, downtown Colorado Springs**

**Early Morning, January 23**

 

John had done some strange things after three in the morning before: run from the police, interviewed homeless graffiti artists, accidentally microwaved a bowl full of earlobes.  But he doubted any night could be stranger than the one he had just been through. 

He reviewed his mental list: he had broken into a murder suspect’s mansion, gotten electrocuted, been chased by ghosts, experienced geostationary orbit, and met, he was certain, the craziest people on the face of the earth.  Nevertheless, there he was, sitting with Sherlock across from those craziest people, the Winchesters, in a homey Mexican restaurant as if it were a completely ordinary after three in the morning drink.  The only indicator that anything strange had gone on was that though he and Sherlock had entered the mansion just before midnight, and their escapade could not have lasted more than twenty minutes total, it was after three in the morning.

The Doctor had landed his… _time machine_ immediately after suggesting dinner, returning to downtown Colorado Springs long enough to drop the four of them off and order some queso before spouting off some techno-gibberish about repairing the damage to his… _time machine._ He’d promised to only be gone a few minutes; John guessed he was counting on their curiosity to keep the group at the restaurant waiting for him.  It was a reasonable assumption given that John at least had never had more questions about anything in his life.

He shook his head incredulously for the hundredth time since settling in the booth.  He looked across at the Winchesters.  The brothers had ordered drinks even before they’d sat down, and were now hunching over the glasses in identical contemplative slouches.  John ran his thumb across his own untouched drink and hazarded a glance at Sherlock.  His friend hadn’t said a word since the Doctor had shown them the view from orbit.  Though the detective was doing an admirable job to mask his concern, he was still pale and his breathing was abnormally shallow.  The doctor in John worried that Sherlock might have suffered a minor concussion during the flight, but the friend in him knew the cause of Sherlock’s distress was deeper. 

 _Say something, damn it,_ he sighed to himself.  _But what the hell do you say to this?  This is…this is…_

“Crazy.”  Dean’s deep voice jolted John out of his thoughts.  The big man leaned back against the booth.  “This is fucking crazy.”

Sam let out a laugh.  “That doesn’t begin to cover it.  I mean, what the hell?”

“I wish I knew the answer,” John agreed. 

Sam looked at John.  “Well,” he sighed, “we might as well answer what we can.”

“Like?”

“For starters, who everyone really is.”  Sam sat back with Dean as he began.  “Dean and I are hunters.  We kill monsters, demons, ghosts, anything deadly and supernatural.  It’s our job.  We got wind of this case a few days ago, thought we’d come check it out.  All signs pointed to some kind of blood-drinking monster, like a werewolf, or-”

“Vampire?” John ventured.

Dean raised his eyebrows.  “Good guess, Frodo, how’d you come up with that?”

Ignoring the nickname jab, John explained how he’d recorded the Winchesters’ conversation at the crime scene.

While Dean gave John an offended glare, Sam looked genuinely impressed.  “Where do you get stuff like that?”

John grinned.  “Sherlock and I have connections.”

“Speaking of which,” Dean piped up, “how’d you two get on the case anyway?”

John shook his head again.  “I was just here for a quiet holiday, but got sidetracked by the murder.”  He smiled grimly.  “I suppose I’m more comfortable on crime scenes than ski slopes.  Sherlock is a consulting detective for Scotland Yard,” he continued to answer the brothers’ inquisitive stares, “and I…lend a hand.  I used to be a military doctor, so I suppose that comes in handy when solving crimes.  Long story short, I sent Sherlock a copy of the recording and he came over to investigate.”

“That’s it?” Sam asked.  “You were just curious?”

“And hoping to end the violence, not much different than the two of you from the sound of it,” John countered. 

“Fair point,” Dean conceded, “but I think you two might still be a little out of your league here.”

“And you’re not?”

The question hung in the air.  No one had any way of explaining the strange man in the bowtie who called himself just the Doctor and had a… _time machine._  After a moment’s silence, Sam ventured to try.  “Well, what do we know about him?”

“He’s British,” Dean asserted. 

John sighed.  “And that helps how?”

“Well, you’re also…British, you could be…connected, or something…” he ended weakly.  Sam and John shot him mirrored withering looks. 

Dean put his hands up.  “Hey, any time we cross paths with British people it goes south.  Remember Bella, Crowley?  I’m just saying…”  Sam rolled his eyes while his brother grumpily returned to his drink.

John took over the questioning.  “You said in the Doctor’s…machine that he could be an angel or a demon.”  He had a difficult time enunciating the impossible words.  “You deal with those often?”

Sam snorted.  “Way too much.  But I honestly think that if he isanything Dean and I have experience with, he’s probably a trickster.”

“What’s a trickster?” John asked. 

“Whaddaya mean _if_?” Dean interjected.

Sam answered John first.  “A trickster is basically a type of god, all-powerful, with a penchant for mischief, deceit, and general chaos.  Upside is they can be killed.  My problem with that explanation though,” he turned to Dean, “is that they’re not well-known for helping people.  I mean, whatever he is, the Doctor saved our lives and has offered to help with the case.  Doesn’t really match the norm for trickster behavior.”

Dean frowned.  “Well, if it’s not a trickster, than what the hell is it?”

“I don’t know, Dean.  But I think he’ll probably tell us.”

“Since when did monsters hand out free info tracks on themselves?”

“He’s not a monster!  Think it through, you know I’m right: he just doesn’t fit the profile.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but to everyone’s surprise, Sherlock cut him off.

“We have to trust him.”

“So the princess speaks.”  John riled at the sarcasm in Dean’s voice, but turned to encourage Sherlock.  “Why should we?”

“For all our collective experience with the unnatural and inexplicable, none of us has any answer for tonight’s events.  Given what we’ve seen of the Doctor, I believe he has the means to back up his claim that he can offer an explanation.  He’s clearly not against us, and though we cannot be certain he is for us, Sam is right: he did save our lives.  Unless we can further the case on our own terms, we have no choice but to listen to him.”

John nodded.  “What if he can’t deliver?”

“Then we gank his lying ass,” Dean pronounced.

Ignoring Dean’s vivid language, John continued, “And if he gives us what we need, what we do then?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.  “That remains to be seen.  But I will allow,” he said with a glance at Dean, “the result could be the same.”

The front doors of the restaurant swung open, letting in a blast of frigid air and the exuberant form of the Doctor.  He practically danced down the stairs to the booth, hands clapped in success. 

“No need to worry, the TARDIS is fine!  Pulled through with nothing but a few bent gyroizers and a burnt out electromagnocronicity monitor, which are quite reparable.  The real difficulty will be drying off the library…”  He frowned deeply at that pronouncement.  He glanced up as a waitress walked over with a tray of chip baskets and what to John looked like a bucket of queso.  The Doctor’s frown immediately vanished into a wide grin. 

“Excellent, now we’re all set!”  He grabbed a chair and dragged it to the front of the table, awkwardly dropping into it as he reached for a chip.  “Nothing better for complicated explanations than snackies, eh?  And I do love this queso.”  As if to prove his point, he scooped as much liquid cheese as the chip would hold and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. 

The group watched in silence.  He paused chewing.  “Pwease, eaf!  You’re gun wan snacks fow fis confersashun!” he managed to get out over the mouthful of queso.  His large hands gestured at the baskets. 

Dean shrugged and grabbed a basket.  “Dude!”  He nudged Sam after a bite.  “This stuff is _awesome_!”

The Doctor looked pleased with himself.  John gave the queso a tentative taste; for being the quintessence of the American obsession with cheese, it was quite good.

After a few minutes even Sherlock was munching contentedly.  The Doctor, satisfied the group was occupied, leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.

“So.  Who wants to ask the first question?”

Four hasty swallows later the table was abuzz with inquiries.  The Doctor threw his hands up. 

“Alright, alright, _alright_!”  The group quieted.  “This is clearly too complicated for questions.  I think I’d better just start with the basics and we’ll see where it goes from there, deal?”  The group’s resumed munching was his answer.

The Doctor nodded.  “Right then.  Ok.  The basics.  Me, for starters.  This may come as a bit of a shock, but I’m not exactly human.”

“Spoiler alert, Doc, the flying space ship kinda gave it away,” Dean said. 

The Doctor gave him a strange smile.  “Spoilers, yeah, I deal a lot with those.  Anyway, I’m a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, a billion, billion lightyears from here.  The TARDIS is my ship.  Stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space.  It can travel anywhere in time and space _._   I didn’t quite grasp the full extent of that level of possibility until very recently.”

“Meaning?” John piped up.

“Meaning I shouldn’t be in this universe at all.  You see, to me, this is an alternate universe, one it’s clear neither I nor any other version of me has ever visited before.”

His pronouncement was met with a round of deeply confused stares.  The Doctor sighed as he explained. 

“By this time in my universe, Earth has known about the existence of alien life for nearly six years.  Everyone on the planet knows what a Sycorax or a Dalek is, but nobody I’ve met knows anything about anything I’ve just said, which is just the nail in the coffin of my suspicion that I am not at all where I’m supposed to be.  Or so I thought before I picked up the transmission.”

“Transmission?” Sam asked.

The Doctor smiled.  “And now for the story you’ve really been waiting to hear.  When I first poked into this universe, I naturally turned my sights towards Earth and picked up a very strange transmission.  A series of dots and pops, like a cross between Morse Code and splattering butter.  It was coming up from the planet on a continuous loop and it was strong, too strong for even today’s technology.  The TARDIS of course figured it out immediately, an electromagnetic pulse on that high a frequency with that far a range is characteristic of only one lifeform, your next-door neighbors actually: the Spectrons.”

There was a moment of quiet as the group put two and two together.  John was the first to speak again.  “So, you’re saying those creaturesat the mansion are… _aliens_?”

“But not just any aliens, Spectrons!  They’re marvelous little things, beings made up of almost exclusively electromagnetic energy.  They usually only exist on a plane of frequency far beyond humanoid detection because they’re quite a private bunch, don’t much like being disturbed, and yet here they are!  Nearly a hundred of them just waltzing about on Earth!  It’s fantastic!”

“Nearly a hundred?” Sam balked.

“Fantastic?” Dean added.

“ _Aliens_?” John repeated.

The Doctor sighed.  “Yes, certainly yes, obviously.  For being collectively the most brilliant unusual-stuff-handling-team on Earth you lot are a bit thick.”

“Just, back up a moment, please,” John interrupted.  “How exactly did these Spectres get here in the first place?”

“Spec _trons_ ,” the Doctor corrected him, “and that’s the most interesting bit yet.  You see, after I realized what the transmission was, I decided to poke a little deeper.  That’s when I found out how many Spectrons were on the planet and that they’re trapped here.”

“Trapped?  How?” Sam asked.

“Spectrons are electromagnetic creatures, they need electromagnetic energy to survive.  With enough of the stuff, they can live happily for hundreds of thousands of years.  Thus, naturally the best places for them are-”

“-stars,” Sherlock concluded. 

John looked at his friend in surprise.  “How do you figure?”

“Despite evidence to the contrary,” Sherlock answered with a small, knowing grin, “I know enough about stellar phenomenon to recall that the process of fission inside stars creates various kinds of energy as byproducts, including massive levels of electromagnetic energy in the forms of light and heat, thus creating-”

“-the perfect home for the Spectrons,” the Doctor finished.  “Well deducted, Sherlock!  And the closest star to Earth aside from her sun is-”

“Betelgeuse,” Sam interrupted eagerly.  Dean gave him a surprised look.  The Doctor’s grin got wider.  “I was wrong, you lot hardly need me at all.  Yes, Betelgeuse.  It’s close and huge and has housed billions of Spectrons for an eternity.  And just over a century ago, it went supernova.”

“What?”  Sam was incredulous.  “We should have seen something, how come no one knew?”

“Betelgeuse is close, but not that close.  You won’t actually see the explosion for nearly another decade; the light still has a little ways left to travel.  But the star is gone, and surprisingly enough, right on schedule.  It went at the same time in my universe as well.  I went to see it three times, quite the light show.  Anyway, without the star, the Spectrons need a new energy source.  They can survive for a few centuries on random electromagnetic energy lingering in space, but they really need a star.  From what I have put together, after Betelgeuse blew up they sent out scouts to track down a new home and of course happened upon Earth’s sun as a candidate.  But something drew them off course, some powerful electromagnetic transmission that pulled them down to Earth instead.  And a century ago, the most powerful electromagnetic transmissions on the planet were coming from right here, in Colorado Springs, in Nikola Tesla’s laboratory.”

“But Tesla has been dead for a century, why are the aliens still here?” John pressed.

“It’s what I said a moment ago, they’re trapped.  Tesla’s transmission acted like an electromagnetic bridge from space: the Spectrons consumed the energy, following it down to Earth.  Once Tesla stopped transmitting, the bridge collapsed.  They had nothing left to consume, nothing they could use to get back into space.  So they’ve stayed, for a hundred years, living off of residual energy from Tesla’s work, rays from the sun, and their own stores.  There’s not enough energy off of Tesla’s grounds for them to even move around from the site of the old lab, except during lightening storms when there’s enough new energy to feed them.  Otherwise, they’re stuck, and increasingly upset about it.”  The Doctor paused to fill one of the few remaining chips with queso and sat back.  “And that’s all I’ve got.  It’s up to you brilliant bunch now.”  He finished with a satisfied munch.

“That’s it?” Dean said after a moment.  “That’s what you tossed us into that damn machine and _sent us into space_ to convince us to listen to?”

The Doctor blinked.  “I think I’ve been very helpful.”

“You’ve been confusing, that’s what you’ve been,” Dean said grumpily. 

“I think,” Sam said with a deep breath, “we just need to put two and two together a little bit here, Doc.  You said these Spectrons can’t move around except during lightening storms.  Is that what happened tonight?”

“Precisely, yes.  The electricity in the air from the lightening both energized the Spectrons and allowed them to move.”

“But how were they attacking us?  If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were being electrocuted,” John pressed. 

The Doctor tapped his nose.  “You know perfectly well, John, and I hate to say that’s exactly what they were doing.  They’re creatures made of electrical energy, it’s their best weapon against flesh and blood creatures like us.”

“Then why did our salt guns work against them?” Sam interjected.

“Simple chemistry,” Sherlock piped up.  “When electrocuted, the chloride in sodium chloride binds with the electrons, breaking the salt into its constituents, sodium and chloride.  That loss of electrons effectively wounded the creatures, if my reasoning is correct and it usually is.”

Dean rolled his eyes while the detective continued.  “This process was also responsible for the explosion at the mansion.  For our purposes, chloride is pointless when dissolved into water, but when water and pure sodium mix, the results are rather…fiery.”

“So, lemme get this straight,” Sam said, leaning forward towards Sherlock. “The salt we poured on the floor mixed with the puddles and the Spectrons electrocuted it to cause an explosion, and you figured all that out from just standing there?”

Sherlock raised a conceited eyebrow.  “Obviously.”

Sam was aghast.  “But how?”

“You have your talents, I have mine,” the detective replied vaguely. 

Dean took a weary swig from his beer and sat up.  “Alright, princess, if standing around uselessly was actually helpful, tell me what that crazy machine-thing in that basement was.”

Sherlock leveled a sarcastic gaze at Dean.  “I was too busy saving our lives to fully explore an obscured bulk of machinery in a darkened room while being electrocuted.  Shall I apologize profusely now or later?”

Dean narrowed his eyes and moved to snap back at Sherlock before the Doctor intervened.  “Now, boys, settle down, it wouldn’t be an investigation if we had all the answers, would it?  And for all the poking around I did, I don’t have a good idea yet what that machine was.  But let’s be reasonable, it _was_ dark and a bit chaotic, and I was interrupted part-way through.  No, the only thing for it is to go back and keep digging.”

John was aghast.  “Go back?  No thanks, I’d rather not have my blood boiled.”

The Doctor raised a finger.  “Oh, we’ll be perfectly safe in the daytime.  The Spectrons will be dormant while they’re absorbing all the sun’s energy, and besides, tonight’s escapade wore them out too.  And with any luck, we might just meet our mystery murderer on the way.”   

John let out a breath.  “I feel awful, but for a moment there I forgot there was actually a human involved in all of this.”

The group was quite for a moment.  John imagined he could hear the wheels turning in everyone’s heads; his was aching, whether from electrocution, confusion, or a combination of both he didn’t are.  He finally took a swig of his untouched drink.  It was cheap scotch, but it was something, and the burn in his throat helped distract from the headache.  He continued sipping as the Doctor piped up again.

“Well,” he clapped his hands, “it’s been a hell of a night, and we’ve got plenty more to do.  Best get you all some rest before then.”  The lanky man stood and stretched awkwardly.  “You’re all of course welcome to stay in the TARDIS if you’d like-”

“Thanks for the kind offer, Doc,” Dean interrupted hastily, “but I think Sammy and I would much appreciate it if you could just get us back to our car, we’ll head back on our own.”

Sam rolled his eyes at the last part; though John didn’t know the reason, he was beginning to sense this was something both brothers did to each other regularly. 

The Doctor shook his head.  “Can’t do that.  We won’t be safe from the Spectrons until daylight.  The storm might be over, but they’ll still be up and about as long as the electrical energy lingers.  It’s their only chance to move about.”

“But-”

“Your car will be fine until morning,” the Doctor reassured him.  “Creatures made of electro-magnetic energy have no interest in a mid-century American muscular vehicle.”

Dean glared at the Doctor, but backed down out good sense.  He muttered under his breath as he turned away, “I’ll…muscle your vehicle, douchebag.”

The Doctor didn’t look like he had heard, but John couldn’t stop a quiet snigger.  Dean caught it, and gave John a small, appreciative smile.  To his surprise, in that moment, John decided he could trust at least half of the Winchester brothers.

He turned back to the Doctor.  “I think Sherlock and I will pass as well, I’ve got a decent room at the Broadmoar that’ll do fine for us.  But we are also going to need a ride.”

If the Doctor was disappointed, he gave no indication of it, but clapped his hands again and whirled around to head for the door.

“Ah, um…” John reached into his coat to find his wallet.  As if only just remembering as well, Sam followed suit. 

“I’ve only got ones,” he muttered to Dean.

“Who do I look like, Donald Trump?”

The Doctor poked his head back around the corner.  “You lot coming or have you fallen asleep already?”

“Half a moment, Doctor…” John held up his wallet in explanation.

“OH!” the Doctor nearly shouted.  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’m awful with this sort of stuff.”  He reached into his jacket and retrieved his metal stick.  “Please, don’t worry about it, tonight’s all on me!”  He leveled the stick at the nearest waiter’s station.  The stick glowed green and buzzed, and the cash register dinged in reply.

“Ready now?” he asked the group with a satisfied grin. 

Sam walked up to the Doctor, jacket half-way on, mouth gaping.  “How did you do that?”

The Doctor spun the stick in the air and caught it deftly.  “Sonic screwdriver.  Works on just about everything, except wood.  Still haven’t figured out why exactly.”

“So…what is it?” Sam pushed, unconvinced. 

“It’s a glowy metal thing that buzzes and makes things do stuff, how should I know what it is and how it works?” the Doctor harrumphed. 

Sam shrugged and finished putting on his jacket.

This time, the ride in the TARDIS was brief and quiet.  Sam and Dean left with muttered thanks and good nights that didn’t dampen the Doctor’s hearty farewell.  John managed something more substantial when the Doctor dropped them off. 

“Oh, please, it was nothing, really, I leap at chances to get involved, especially with minds as bright as you four’s,” the Doctor replied.  “We’ve a long way to go with this, but the game is on now, and we’ll see it to the end, won’t we?”

John smiled in polite agreement.  Sherlock said nothing, but gave the TARDIS a long, intense survey just before stepping out.  The Doctor stared at him quizzically and moved to say something, but changed his mind and said simply, “I’ll be back at 8 in the morning.  Until then, good night, gentlemen.”

He got back into the TARDIS, and after a moment of loud wheezing, he and the machine were gone, leaving the two men in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Broadmoor Hotel**

**Early morning, January 23**

 

 

 

“Alright then, I’ll take the couch, I suppose, I think you might be too tall for it,” John volunteered when they got up to his room at the Broadmoor. Sherlock didn’t reply. John raised his eyebrows but didn’t push.  He pulled off his jacket and made a face.  The coffee stains smelled rancid.

“Here, hand me a hanger, I’m going to put this up in the bathroom. Maybe a good steam will get some of this bloody odor out.  Don’t want it getting on yours.”  He held out an arm back out Sherlock while continuing to examine his certainly ruined coat. When nothing entered his open hand, he turned with gentle concern in his gaze.  Sherlock stood by the door, unmoving, jacket still on. His expression was blank but his slumping shoulders betrayed his exhaustion, physical and emotional.

“Sherlock…?” John spoke quietly. Sherlock didn’t move.

 _Alright, this is getting ridiculous._ “Sherlock, talk to me. You need to talk. If you just shove this all down it’s going to drive you crazy.  Take off your coat and put the kettle on and _please let’s talk._ ”

John’s insistent tone shook Sherlock out of his stupor. “Yes, right.  Talking.”  He pulled his hands out of his pockets but stopped when he realized they were shaking. He frowned like a child who stumbles across an inexplicably broken toy.  John put down his jacket and took Sherlock’s hand, doctor’s eyes analyzing.

“Look at me,” he ordered.  His eyes darted back and forth, searching Sherlock’s pupils.  When he finished he paused for half a moment, struck by the depth he suddenly saw in Sherlock’s light eyes.  Worry, fear, doubt, yes, but still the same bravado and insatiable curiosity. _Despite everything…_ He dropped Sherlock’s hand.

“Well, good news is if you’ve got a concussion it’s not too bad. I recommend a piping hot tea and something other than bad nachos on your stomach.  So you put that kettle on now, doctor’s orders. I’ve got some leftover steak in the fridge we can split.”

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment before mumbling, “I’d be lost without my doctor. So,” he finally took off his jacket, “as ordered, Doctor Watson.”

John smiled.  _Progress._

In a few minutes they were sitting by the window sipping John’s Earl Gray and working their jaws on overcooked steak.  Sherlock asked after Abbie, John relayed the coffee incident. John asked about home, Sherlock regaled him with Lestrade and Anderson’s most recent misadventure in a mangled drugs bust that ended with the two of them treading water in the Thames. They both laughed and John felt the air clearing. 

“So,” he ventured, “not exactly what you were expecting when you got my call, huh?”

Sherlock’s smile faded but didn’t vanish.  “I try not to have expectations about cases.  Encourages bias.  But yes, I suppose had I let my imagination run its wildest course I would not have included aliens and spirits in my predictions.”

“But you’re alright including them now?”

“The evidence is a tad overwhelming.”

“Yeah, but…” John trailed off, falling back into his chair. He pushed his hair back as he let out a big breath. “Aliens, Sherlock, and not just aliens, aliens from other universes!  Aliens from other universes with big blue boxes and time machines and glow sticks and bad bow ties-”

“I thought it suited him.”

John made a face.  “Missing the point here!”

“Am I?”

“Well, what do _you_ think the point is?”

Sherlock took a breath.  “The point is our previous understanding of the universe was flawed. Now we know better, and the new point is to investigate the new knowledge to re-create our understanding into a more accurate picture.  If I’ve been…quiet since tonight’s business it is because I’m trying to go through that process. It’s the same process I imagine you’re going through, just with more noise and less scientific procedure.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you can’t just strip something like this down to _scientific procedure_ , it’s bigger than that!”

“Is science not big enough for the universe?”

“Maybe not!”  John didn’t realize how loud his voice had gotten.  He set his tea down and took a breath. 

“Maybe it’s not big enough for me,” he amended softly. 

Sherlock was silent for a moment.  “What we’ve learned, it changes the universe, but ultimately that doesn’t matter. Not now, not for us.” He met John’s eyes. “It doesn’t change how we do what we do, nor that we will do it.  When it all gets…too big, to put it in your terms, I suppose that’s what we must rely on. Each other.” 

When Sherlock was sincere, when he meant something from the depths of his soul, and John knew it was deeper than most, his eyes glowed with a piercing light, an intensity that sought to shoot through any barrier. It was palpable, his faith in the truth of his words and his desperation to have John believe him. John nodded with a small smile. Of course he believed him.

“Ok. It looks like we’ve got work to do, reordering the universe and all that.”

Sherlock smiled.  “We have a case to solve first.”   

“And for that we’re going to need some rest.”  He stood to clear the tea.

“On that topic, I’d like to get my own room,” Sherlock said as he stood.

John frowned.  “Why? We can fit in here just fine, like I said, I’ll take-”

“John. I’d like my own room. I may be secure in some areas but I have quite a bit of thinking left to do and I do it best alone.”

John still thought it was unnecessary, but he conceded. As Sherlock opened the door to leave he paused and turned back around.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Will you do one other thing for me, please?”

John was struck by Sherlock’s change in tone.  The confidence from a few minutes ago was gone and the confused, frightened child was back. 

“Yes, anything.”

“Tell me that you see the same things I do.  When what we see defies everything we know, and I have no doubt it will, please, tell me what I see is…real.”

John thought a moment.  “On one condition: you do the same for me.  Relying on each other, remember?”

John watched the calm and hope return to Sherlock’s eyes in an instant. “Of course.  Thank you.”

John nodded.  “Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yes. You too.  Good night.”  Sherlock shut the door.  


	12. Chapter 12

****   


**The Field of Lights Motel**

**Early morning, January 23**

 

 

For the first several minutes after the Doctor dropped them off, Sam and Dean were silent.  Dean yanked off his boots and jacket and threw himself onto the motel bed fully dressed out of habit.

Sam considered a shower, hoping it would help his aching body, but the thought of lukewarm, low-pressure water discouraged him.  He opted for a few ibuprofen and a beer instead. He and his brother weren’t likely going to sleep anyway, so he figured the temporary dulling would be worth it.

He hung his jacket and pulled off his outer flannel shirt, wincing at the stretch.  Dean opened his eyes when he heard the minifridge open.  He raised his head and an eyebrow in question.  Sam paused.

“Want one?”

“No. Why do you want one? It’s four in the morning.”

“Is it a crime to want a beer now?” Sam snapped.

Dean frowned and sat up a little.  “What’s that about?”

Sam let out a sarcastic huff while opening his beer. “Oh, I dunno Dean, maybe the fact that aliens exist might be unsettling me a little.”  He threw the lid away, shuffled over to the other bed, and sat down with effort.  He couldn’t help a small hiss of discomfort at the lingering pain in his stiff legs. Dean sat up all the way at that. Sam shot him a quelling glare.

“I’m. Fine.”

“Like hell you are.  How many times did you get hit?”

Sam swigged his beer.  “It doesn’t matter.  Can’t exactly treat electrocution in a motel room.”

“Then we take you to a hospital.”

“And tell them what? ‘Yeah, doc, my brother was electrocuted by alien ghosts from Betelgeuse, got anything for that?’”

Dean riled in frustration.  “Why is this bugging you so much?”

“Why is this _not_ bugging you?”

“Because it’s not!”  Dean rocked back and rubbed his eyes again.  “It’s not,” he repeated.  “Think about it, Sammy. This shouldn’t throw us off. Weird aliens are just the same as weird monsters.  Same song, different verse. And we just do like we always do.” He held his hand over his forehead while he talked.  Sam softened.

“Are you telling me this or are you telling you this?”

Dean didn’t look up.  “I don’t know. Both, I guess.” He sighed.  “I’m bugged too, Sammy.  I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do.  Aliens with fucking flying boxes aren’t exactly in the hunter how-to manual.” 

Sam nodded.  “That’s the thing, I don’t know if we can just do like we always do with this.  It’s so…big.”

Dean let out a harsh laugh and finally looked up.  “Like we haven’t done big before.  As I recall the Apocalypse was a little on the large side.”

Sam smiled.  “Yeah, I guess.” He grew serious again. “But that was just our world, our one planet.  Now we have to deal with the knowledge that there are billions, probably even trillions of other planets, not to mention other universes with their own planets, and-”

“Ok, woah, woah, slow way down there.”  Dean threw his hands up.  “See, this is what we can’t do.  We can’t get wrapped up in how much we don’t know or how much we can’t know. If we freaked about that every time we got a weird case, we woulda gone batshit crazy years ago. We take this in stride, learn as we go.” He paused and leaned forward to look Sam in the eye.  “We trust each other, rely on each other, _same as we always do._ ”

For a moment the sheer simple determination in Dean’s eyes uplifted Sam. They had stopped the Apocalypse after all, they did take down weird shit they didn’t know about before all the time, they could do this, together…

A bark of cold laughter shot through Sam’s soul with a pain worse that a hundred electrocutions.  “Aha, hoo, man, all that togetherness, wow, it really touches a guy’s heart. You two should write Hallmark cards.” The hallucination’s icy breath raised goosebumps on Sam’s neck as it leaned in, whispering, “Except, no one would ever buy them, because they’d reek of bullshit!”

Sam flinched away from the voice.  He set his beer on the floor and grabbed his left hand, hard. The hallucination just laughed again. “You can’t ignore the truth, Sam. It won’t just disappear like me if you concentrate enough.  Besides, you’re too weak to get rid of me anyway.  Looks like the truth and I are here to stay!”

Dean was tense and watching Sam carefully, but he made no move to help. Bobby had advised and they’d agreed that this was Sam’s fight, that the only way to get the hallucination to stop was for Sam to face it himself.  But when a full minute had passed and Sam was still pressing on his hand, Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sammy, listen, whatever he’s saying, you know it’s lies, right? All lies.  He’s not here, I am, listen to me, not him!”

“Face it, big brother, you just don’t know your little Sammy like I do!” The hallucination tilted its head with a sing-song voice as it addressed Dean.  It put its hand out, hovering it over Sam’s hunched shoulders. “We’ve spent a lot of quality time, a lot more than the two of you have, and I _know_ he can’t handle this.”  It turned its attention back to Sam. 

“You’ve fucked up your life, fucked up his life, fucked up the lives of everyone you’ve ever met, hah, you’ve fucked up the whole damn planet worse than I ever did!  How can you be trusted with the knowledge of the rest of the universe?  That… _Doctor_ doesn’t know what he’s messing with, coming to you for help.  He has no idea what he’s unleashing, no clue the _destruction_ , the _misery_ you’ll wreak on the _whole of creation_ …”

Sam felt cold seeping through his body, the biting chill of a suppressed truth freezing his will to fight back.  _He’s right, of course he’s right_ , murmured a voice, not from the hallucination, but from Sam’s own mind. _You can’t do this, you haven’t the right to do this, you’re not worthy, not pure, not clean…_ Sam’s grip on his hand started to loosen.

Dean’s hand clamped down over Sam’s and pushed hard.  “Stop it, stop it now!” Dean growled. Sam opened his eyes wide at the sharp, hot pain in his hand and realized his brother was talking to the hallucination.  It opened its mouth to give some retort.  Sam pushed Dean’s hand off and focused, pressing on the still-healing cut on his left palm. The spectre vanished before it could say another word. 

For several moments the only sound in the motel room were the two brothers breathing as they calmed down.  Sam rubbed the lingering ache out of his palm, subconsciously enjoying the sensation of warmth and feeling that pain brought. At last he spoke.

“Thank you.”

Dean nodded.  “He’s gone, you’re sure?”

“Yeah. For now.”

“It seemed…worse, this time.”

“Yeah. I’m just tired and freaked, which doesn’t help much.”  Sam looked at his hand. “I don’t think he’ll be back for a while, though.”

“Why, did he get a word from me and go running scared?”

Sam smiled at his brother.  “Something like that.”

Dean smiled back and stood to stretch.  “Well I’d like it best if he didn’t come back at all.”

“Heh, you and me both.” 

“You think you’ll be able to sleep?”

“Crazily enough, yeah.”  Sam let out a breath.  “I’m beat.”

“You gonna finish that?” Dean gestured at the barely touched beer at Sam’s feet.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam picked it up and made a face.  “Not really in the mood anymore.”  He stood and put the bottle back in the minifridge. He took a minute to stretch out his sore limbs and looked over the case notes on the motel wall. _This all got so weird…_ He paused when he noticed the bag of goo from the crime scene they’d left on the table. 

“Hey, you think the Doctor could help us figure out what that goo is?”

Dean had stretched himself out on the bed on his stomach. He spoke without lifting his head, his voice muffled by the pillow.  “I think the less we have to do with the alien with the creepy flying box the happier I’d be, but yeah, he could probably figure it out.  We’ll bring it with.” 

“’K.” Sam set it by his phone on the table so they wouldn’t forget it, then fell down on his own bed with a relieved exhale. He shut his eyes, feeling his body relaxing despite the uncomfortable bed. 

“Hey Sam?”

“What?” he answered without opening his eyes. 

“If you’re so freaked by the ghost-aliens, how come you’re OK with the Doctor?”

“I guess…there’s just something about him.  I trust him.”

Dean didn’t answer.  His slowing breath showed he was likely already asleep.  Sam thought about his question for a moment more, then rolled over and flicked off the lamp.  Within moments he was asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

** **

 

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Geostationary Orbit above Colorado Springs**

**Mid-morning, January 23**

 

When he picked everyone up that morning, the Doctor had thought he was fully prepared to deal with any reaction or attitude from his new…acquaintances? Companions?  Friends?  To be honest he wasn’t sure where he stood with them.  Had he frustrated them?  Frightened them? Were they angry, curious, confused, sullen?  His experience with humans told him they were probably all feeling a combination of all of the above, plus some.  He’d dealt with such reactions from companions before, but then he’d always felt confident he could impress his way out of any truly uncomfortable emotions. These men…these were hard men, all of them.  Hardened each in their own way to be sure, but each had already seen and experienced more horrors and wonders in their lifetimes than any companion the Doctor had traveled with before. With them it wasn’t a matter of showing off, of trumping the best thing they’d ever seen with any one beautiful vista in the universe.  No, with them…with them it would be a matter of convincing them beautiful things still existed at all. 

So he started simple.  He picked up the Winchesters first, half-awake, unshowered, pissy, throwing still-suspicious and worried glances at him and the TARDIS.  Moments later Sherlock and John were aboard, more awake, less annoyed, but just as unresponsive.  The two pairs stood awkwardly on opposite sides of the control room while the Doctor busied himself with his plan.  The only noise was the gentle wheeze and groan of the TARDIS’ engines; the Doctor sensed even she was moving carefully, trying not to upset their guests.

Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he reached under the console and brought out breakfast. 

“Now!” He put as much enthusiasm and encouragement as he could into his tone.  He gazed around at the group.  Attentive, hesitant, exhausted, determined, worried… _humans are so brilliantly complicated.  I’ve spent a hundred lifetimes learning their ways and they still surprise me. I hope…_

“Well, I’ve got some breakfast here.  Dropped by a few spots on my way in this morning, it’s all fresh.” He listed the dishes as he laid them out around the console.  “Espresso and croissant from Paris, Brazilian meat and cheese platter, Moroccan flatbread and chutney, boiled mutton from Mongolia, sweet arepas from Cuba, and of course, proper English sausage, beans, eggs, and tea, and the best apple pie, bacon, and coffee this side of the Mississippi!” 

He stood back to survey his work.  The control room had become a smorgasbord of aromas. Somebody’s stomach growled.

“Good lord, how in the world…” John breathed as he walked up the steps.

The Doctor beamed.  “Delivery’s a breeze when you’ve got a time machine!”

John pulled a plate from the mismatched stack the Doctor had rooted out of his collection and began loading it up.  He glanced back at the hesitant Sherlock and beckoned him over. “Sherlock, get the tea going will you?”

John’s movement and practical tone somehow made the whole situation seem less...extraordinary.  Within a few minutes the kettle was whistling and each man had a plate heaped high with food.  The Doctor took only a cup of tea for himself and fiddled quietly with a gadget he’d been assembling overnight. The TARDIS control room filled with the sounds of a group contentedly munching.  The Doctor smiled to himself.  _Mission accomplished. Or at least, the first one…_

After a few minutes he invited everyone for a second round. Sam, Dean, and John helped themselves, and Sherlock poured himself another cup of tea when the TARDIS shifted slightly.  Dean’s eyes widened with concern halfway through biting into his third slice of pie. Bits of crust spewed from his mouth as he attempted to ask what was wrong.

“Oh, don’t worry lads, old girl’s just getting comfortable. Orbiting Earth in this century is a bit of a balancing act with all the junk that’s up here.  She’s likely just dodging a satellite, or a missile, or some scrap of old rocket that hasn’t made its way to disintegrating in the atmosphere yet.”

His explanation seemed to do little to assuage Dean’s apprehension, but he did manage to get down his bite of pie without choking on it, so that at least indicated progress. 

“So how high are we exactly?” Sam ventured.  The Doctor beamed.  He swung himself around the console to pull the viewscreen to where Sam was leaning on the railing.

“I put us a tad lower than last night so if any of you possibly wanted to take a look outside again you could enjoy watching the planet turn. Or rather, we’re turning slightly faster than it and when you take into account the speed of its rotation and the TARDIS’ compensation for the various changes in speed and direction to dodge the orbital debris…”  The Doctor could tell by the growing furrow in Sam’s brow that he was losing him.

“Well, in brief, we’re still very high up and it’s quite lovely. If you’d like to look.” He turned the viewscreen on to show the TARDIS’ view.  Sam was enthralled.

“Dean, you gotta take a look at this.”

From the other side of the console, Dean was licking the last of his pie from his fork.  He shook his head. “Nuh-uh.  I’d prefer not to puke up the delicious pie I just finished at the thought of being in fucking _space_.”

Sam shook his head at his brother but smiled in spite of himself. He sipped his coffee and gazed at the viewscreen, eyes filled with thinly veiled awe. 

The next few minutes were spent quietly as everyone finished their meals and the Doctor cleaned up.  In between dumping the leftovers into a picnic basket and shoving it in a compartment under the console to deal with later, he kept tabs on the TARDIS’ analysis of the phenomena from the night before.  It didn’t take much; push a button here, flip a switch there, whack the data conversion tablet with a gavel a few times.  He noted out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was watching his every move.  The detective hadn’t said a thing since coming aboard, even when John encouraged him to eat, but his eyes had been everywhere and especially on the Doctor. _I wonder what he’s deducing, how much he’s able to figure out._ He said nothing and continued to work, taking a moment to look at John.  He’d joined Sam by the viewscreen and the two were hesitantly discussing the fact that they were _in space_. It did not escape the Doctor’s notice, however, that every few moments John would glance over at Sherlock. The Doctor wondered what John was checking on, but whatever it was seemed to be alright since John made no move to disrupt Sherlock’s observations and in fact appeared pleased that Sherlock was being so attentive.  The Doctor couldn’t help a smile.  _If every lonely monster needs a companion, thank the stars he’s got one who understands him._

A loud ring from the console interrupted his musings. Everyone jumped at the noise. The Doctor shifted over to the flashing display and frowned at what he saw. 

“What’s the matter?” John queried.  The Doctor didn’t answer, but pushed himself between John and Sam to input something into the viewscreen. 

“No, no, no, no, this is not right, something’s not right!”

“Doctor, what’s not right?” John insisted.

The Doctor shook his head as he worked.  “Ah, I gave the TARDIS the scans of the machine I made before I was so rudely interrupted last night and she can’t seem to make heads or tails of them! Which doesn’t make any sense at all since the apparatus was barely more than a rudimentary power converter assembled quite hastily by what had to have been a semi-intelligent ape who had no concept of how to properly align even the simplest of transistor coils!”

His voice rose and grew more hostile as he scurried around the console, his frustration at the uncooperative TARDIS rising by the moment. John backed away to stand by Sherlock as the Doctor’s voice began taking on the tone of a boiling kettle. Sam glanced uncertainly at Dean.

“Can we, uh, help?  At all?”

“No, no, no, of course you can’t help!  None of you can help, I can’t even help!  The TARDIS won’t be able to give me anything until she’s got a reference point to work from, and we’ve got no other input to give her!” He slammed his hand on the console and yelped in pain.  He stood, shaking his arm, deflated.

“Um,” Sam started.  “This may not be anything, but if you’re needing…more input, Dean and I found something weird at the crime scene in the church.”

John folded his arms in annoyance.  “Oh, _now_ you mention this?”

Sam gave him an exasperated look.  “We thought it was just some ectoplasm left by the spirits, but we examined it and it’s definitely not ecto.  And of course, now that we know the spirits aren’t, well, spirits, we’ve got no clue what this stuff could be.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag of green ooze he and Dean had collected from the church.  He handed it to the Doctor.  “We figured maybe you could use your…whatever to identify it.”

The Doctor squinted at the substance in the bag.  He opened it, sniffed, and made a face.  Then, before anyone could stop him, he stuck in a finger, pulled out a glob, and licked it.

Sam and Dean both let out shouts and John stood aghast. Sherlock seemed slightly amused. The Doctor looked innocently at the group, smacking his lips.

“What? Oh, this?  Oh, it’s harmless, just a bit nasty is all! My first guess would be some kind of mechanical byproduct.”  His eyes lit up with an idea.  “It could be from the machine at the mansion!”  He darted around the console to grab what looked like an oversized microscope slide from a lower compartment.  Using his finger, he spread the bag’s contents onto the slide.  “If the TARDIS can identify what’s in this goo, it’ll give me a better idea of what that machine is and what it does!” he explained as he worked. He tossed the bag over his shoulder once he was done and pushed the slide into a gap in the console. The TARDIS dinged in response. The Doctor practically danced over to Sam, hands outstretched in congratulations.  Sam pulled back from the bits of goo still dripping from the Doctor’s hand.

“You sure that stuff’s not toxic?”

As if to prove his point, the Doctor wiped his hand up and down his tweed jacket before extending it back to Sam.

Sam raised his eyebrows and deigned to shake the Doctor’s still slightly gooey hand. 

“Excuse me…Doctor.”  The Doctor turned in surprise to see Sherlock standing by the TARDIS’ microscope.

“…Yes?”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.  “I happen to have a particular talent for chemistry, I thought I might be of extra assistance identifying this substance, unless of course your clever box is capable of balancing that many observations at once.”

The Doctor grinned.  Of course the TARDIS could handle it, and more, and he suspected the detective knew as much, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Be my guest, Mr. Holmes!”  He opened an arm wide to invite Sherlock to the microscope.  Sherlock responded with the closest thing to a smile the Doctor had seen from him yet.   _It really is a miracle what a good cuppa can do for a man’s soul!_

Sherlock and the Doctor worked for several minutes, hunched side by side over the TARDIS console.  The Doctor didn’t even have to try to let Sherlock do most of the work; the man was a brilliant chemist and his quick mind adapted to the TARDIS’ controls with ease. Mostly the Doctor had to practice keeping his grin at only mildly pleased levels and not leap for joy at having finally reached the detective.  He knew not everything had been set right in Sherlock’s mind or soul, but he’d found some place to be comfortable in this adventure and that was a huge leap. _I wonder what else he’s decoding behind the structure of this sample,_ he wondered as they worked.  _He’s crazy if he thinks he can actually figure out the TARDIS; but then, he’s been called worse before. Maybe it takes a little madness to be so brilliant._

Sherlock pulled out his phone and typed in a few notes on their observations. John saw them wrapping up.

“Well? Find anything?”

Sam and Dean walked up the stairs to the console to listen. The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair and looked expectantly at Sherlock. 

“You’re the graduate chemist in the room!”

Sherlock stood a little taller, despite himself, and launched into full detective mode.

“It’s too early to say for certain that the Doctor’s initial guess was correct. It bears similar physical qualities to the viscous substances secreted by ________ when they __________, but it contains almost exclusively organic substances.”

“That can’t be right,” John countered.

“Why not?” Dean piped up.  “If we’re gonna work together on this, you can’t leave the non-geeks behind here,” he added.

Sherlock almost seemed happier to have to explain: “It is almost impossible for machines to produce synthetic organic compounds without exact controlled circumstances. This…ooze contains completely antithetical substances, such as severely concentrated doses of amphetamines and octanitrocubane, just to name a few.  It could be used for anything from building a dirty bomb to lubricating a car engine to…” His eyes suddenly lit up. He turned to the Winchesters.

“Did either of you acquire an autopsy report on the victim from the church?”

Sam nods.  “Yeah. Why’s that relevant?”

“It may not be yet.  Tell me, what was the cause of death?”

“I guess, severe blood loss.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.  “Yes, but what _caused_ the blood loss?”

Sam started to catch on.  “Her heart rate was sped up, way up, like, heart attack fast.”

“And was there evidence of drugs in her system?”

“Yeah, but the doctors couldn’t identify it -”

“- because the drug that caused the heart attack is alien in origin,” Sherlock finished triumphantly.

“Amazing,” Sam breathed.  “See, Doc? That stuff really is toxic!”

“I KNEW IT.”  Dean jumped back from the microscope in horror.  He stopped suddenly, confused.  “What exactly does it do?”

“What cocaine does, but faster and better,” Sherlock said. John gave him a disapproving glance. Sherlock sighed and expounded: “The amphetamines in the compound operated like an impossibly concentrated does of cocaine in the victim, speeding up her heart rate and knocking her unconscious almost instantly.  It made easy pickings for the killer.  And don’t worry, Dean, it’s only effective intravenously.  Touching it won’t make you anything but itchy.”

“Well, that explains it,” muttered the Doctor as he realized he’d been absentmindedly scratching his hand this whole time. 

Sherlock stared through the microscope, pensive.  He looked back up at Sam. 

“I don’t suppose you can use those barely-convincing FBI badges to get me into the morgue?”

Ignoring the jab, Sam nodded.  “I think so, why?”

“I’d like to confirm this by examining the body myself. I don’t have all the pieces yet, and I can’t get them from what’s likely an incomplete autopsy report. I’d also like to see this crime scene with my own eyes.”

The Doctor nodded.  “I think that’s a splendid idea!”

“Doc, we can’t all go tramping into the morgue,” Dean pointed out. “Besides, Officer Burton already knows Dr. Watson, we’d never be able to get him back on the crime scene.”

“Fair point, Dean,” the Doctor agreed.  “So I propose we split up: Sam and Sherlock head to the morgue to examine the body and look at the scene of the crime while Dean, John, and I return to the mansion to get me a better look at that machine and see what we can dig up about our murderer.”

Dean put his hands up.  “Hey, no way I’m going back there!”

“The Spectrons aren’t active during the day, may I remind you. I also thought this would be a good chance to pick up that marvelous car of yours.”

Dean frowned, still uncomfortable, but mumbled, “Well, for Baby…”

The Doctor clapped his hands.  “It’s settled then!”  He leapt over to the console, threw the door closed, and yanked on the accelerator. The group, a little more prepared this time, latched onto the railings as the TARDIS sped out of orbit back down to Earth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first SuperWhoLock anything, so I hope it makes the cut! Comments, questions, complaints, or pithy thoughts may be directed to my Tumblr ask box (gibbytod.tumblr.com), as always.  
> I deliberately chose to write this the way I did for a variety of reasons, the most important of which are these:  
> The only way I could work out all the kinks in continuity, especially lining up the Doctor’s timeline with the Winchester’s and Sherlock’s, was to create an alternate universe in which aliens had not yet visited Earth. I made up the church, the Field of Lights Trail, and the Kierchev mansion. I did not make up the Broadmoor Hotel, Nikola Tesla’s workshop, or the Mexican restaurant in downtown Colorado Springs. It's called Jose Muldoon's, and I’ve eaten there; the queso really is awesome.  
> Now, timelines and continuity: I left out Cas and the Doctor’s companions because they didn’t line up with the timelines I’d chosen to write in. When this story occurs, Sam and Dean are getting nowhere with the hunt for Dick Roman (midway through Season 7, if you’re wondering), and are looking for jobs to fill their time. I chose this point because I wanted to write with their more mature personalities (including Sam’s struggle against insanity and Lucifer), I could incorporate Bobby, and it was one of those natural breaks in the overall story arcs Supernatural uses that was easily exploitable. Unfortunately, as we all know, Cas was out of commission during this time, so I did have to leave him out. This does not however, exclude the possibility of a sequel, in which I assure you, Cas would feature prominently. Writing his interactions with Eleven and Sherlock is too tempting to resist.  
> As for the Doctor, I chose Eleven for the simple reason that he was the current Doctor at the time of writing. Plus, he has this wonderfully long period of time (read: about 200 years) during which he was running from the Impossible Astronaut, had no companions to complicate the storyline, and we have no clue what he was up to. I find it quite likely that he may have done some poking around, as he does, and pushed his way into an alternate universe in which not all the monsters come from outer space. Also, it helps me sleep at night to think that at some point in his life, he really did try to get back to Rose.  
> At the time of writing, I had stated that it was because of "obvious, tantalizing, aggravating, torturous reasons" that I had no clue what happened after Riechenbach, and it made sense that this story should occur before Sherlock's fall. Those reasons are FINALLY AND WONDERFULLY no longer a problem, but the timing remains the same. Once that decision was made, these events just seemed to fall naturally into place after Hounds. John and Sherlock clearly enjoy some commercial success before Moriarty steps in and ruins everything, and if I were John, I’d think it would be nice to just get away, maybe pop across the Pond for a nice, quiet vacation. But of course, such peace and quiet and utter boredom just will not do.  
> Enjoy!


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